“Okay, I can do that,” I said, the words leaping from my lips without my consent.
“I can’t act,” I added quickly, hoping she would set me free and turn her powers upon someone else. “I can’t even act like I can act.”
The following week, when she handed me a script as thick as a phonebook, I begrudgingly accepted my fate: I would play a servant at the final inn Mary and Joseph would visit in their search for lodging. With eyes as big as milk saucers, I would point at the star in the sky, which was hovering above the stable out back, and shout, “It’s huge!”
I lamented my lack of backbone for at least a week after agreeing to appear in this play. When I found out my friend Tim had been enlisted to direct it, however, I felt less alone. Like me, he had probably been bamboozled into accepting his role, as he is hardly the sort to direct—let alone attend—a church play.
The sole bohemian fifty-something who attends my church, Tim is a jazz-loving, Zappa-worshipping, cigar-smoking, beer-swilling, swearing scoundrel who reminds me of Han Solo, but with less hair than Harrison Ford. His glasses sit atop his shaved scalp as if he doesn’t actually need them to see, which kind of kills me. Best of all though, Tim does not suffer fools, even though he kind of is one (and even though he suffers me just fine).
What I like best about Tim, though, is his gift for afflicting the comfortable. Churchgoers tend to be a pretty comfortable lot, too. We do not like to be afflicted. Even the slightest change threatens to undo us. We are deathly afraid of new hymns, for example, and prefer to sing songs that predate the invention of the cotton gin.