So you now how, about four years ago, I decided that I was going to go to seminary and become a Unitarian minister? Okay, yeah, I never quite got around to following up on that.
But I did finally start attending a UU church on a regular basis. And I have to say, it’s been an adventure in personal revelation.
My friend Sarah and I basically goaded each other into it. She’d been looking for a good choir to join, since she’s a classically-trained opera singer in need of an outlet, and from a greater spiritual community perspective, I’d been drifting in neutral for a bit, so we decided to join forces and check out a congregation not too far from either of us.
“There are other UU churches around town, though,” I pointed out as we met up in the parking lot. “Do we want to visit them as well?”
“I mean, we could,” Sarah said. “But this one is… geographically convenient.”
“That is a selling point,” I affirmed.
Overall, it was a good experience. The sermon was a call to action on reclaiming the American flag, and the choir pleasantly surprised both of us. Afterwards, we filled out visitor cards and bought adorable miniature chalices in the bookstore as souvenirs, and we agreed that we wanted to come back. And upon our return the next Sunday, we discovered that we had printed name tags waiting for us at the welcome table, which was a nice touch. (Recurring visitors get blue name tags, and members get yellow name tags. It’s a whole thing.)
That week’s service was all about the erasure of women in art history, and the liturgical music reflected the theme: The offertory was a piano rendition of Billie Eilish’s “What Was I Made For?” and the postlude (I promise I am not making this up) was “Wipe Out” by the Surfaris, covered by an enthusiastic, electric-guitar-and-drum-kit duo, with the iconic opening cackle provided by the acting worship associate.
“This feels less like joining a church, and more like joining the cast of a TV show about a church,” I whispered to Sarah, as the performers removed their sunglasses and took bows to thunderous applause.
“I think I like that better than joining a church,” Sarah whispered back.
Sarah had a scheduling conflict this past Sunday and opted to watch the service live on YouTube, so I went alone, which, honestly, was a huge step out of my comfort zone — my anxiety usually requires me to keep an emotional support person on hand when venturing into unfamiliar territory. But I smiled at everyone I encountered like a real human would do, then picked up my name tag and settled into a pew towards the back of the sanctuary, just in time for the minister’s weekly announcements. And after he went over all the regular church business, he was like, “Oh, and hey! If you have a blue name tag, you can come to the monthly Explorer’s class in our library right after the service.”
I am not ashamed to admit that this made me feel like part of an exclusive club, even though I figured I would be the only one to show up. So I was caught off guard when I wandered into the library and found eight other visitors raring to go.
“It’s the name tags,” Nancy, the lovely woman running the class, confided as we took our seats. “We used to only get one or two people at these classes, until [the reverend] started making it sound like a big deal to have a blue name tag. Now we get at least ten people every month.”
“I can… definitely see how that would work,” I replied with what I assume was a poker face.
The reverend in question joined us a few moments later, and we all introduced ourselves. It was an interesting mix: several people were members of a different UU church that’s going through some upheaval, so they were weighing their congregational options; one person had never attended a UU church at all and was just curious; and I was the only Pagan. But nobody flinched when I mentioned it, so I took that as a good sign.
The minister encouraged us to ask questions, and we ended up having a discussion about annual pledges. (Quoth the minister: “Listen. We rely on donations, but if you’re not in a secure place financially, just sign the membership book and give me a dollar, and we’ll call it even.”) One woman was in the process of training a therapy dog and wanted to know if she could bring him to services, to which the minister responded, “I do not know what the rules are on that, so we’re just going to ask for forgiveness instead of permission,” at which point I decided that I would be willing to follow him into hell.
I asked if the church had ever had a CUUPs group, and it turns out that they’re currently trying to get one off the ground. The minister’s eyes lit up when I said I’d be interested in helping with that. “In the meantime, we’ve got a group that organizes Solstice and Equinox rituals,” he added. “They’re like CUUPs Lite.”
“Ooh, I could handle CUUPs Lite,” the older lady next to me muttered, not quite under her breath.
The final step to officially joining is scheduling a one-on-one meeting with the minister, and when that came up, I explained that I have to go to Cleveland for a book signing at the beginning of November, but that I could meet as soon as I get back.
“You wrote a book? That’s wonderful! Congratulations!” The minister exclaimed. “What’s it about?”
“It’s on Discordianism,” I said. “Which is a parody religion based on Greek mythology that was founded in the early sixties.”
“Is it similar to the Flying Spaghetti Monster?” He asked.
“It’s pretty much the predecessor of the Flying Spaghetti Monster,” I said.
“Okay, then,” he replied, “You’ll be teaching a Religious Education class on Discordianism once you’ve recovered from your trip. Excellent.”
And you know, I sincerely appreciate that he phrased it as if I’d pitched the idea.
I called Sarah once I got home to debrief and learned that she’d already been in contact with the choir director, who was politely but proactively recruiting her.
“They are in desperate need of sopranos,” Sarah said. “Which is the opposite of how this usually goes.”
“Things really seem to be falling into place around us joining this church,” I mused.
“They really do. And they’re not love bombing us. Have you noticed that? Everyone’s friendly, but, like… in a very normal way.”
And that’s something that had been floating around amorphously in the back of my mind until Sarah put it into words. The whole thing is just… normal. Normal people with shared values getting together once a week to commune and socialize and do normal stuff. And by extension, they are letting Sarah and me know that we are going to be a normal part of all that.
I do not remember the last time anyone has considered me normal. And much like the blue name tag I’ll still be wearing for the next few weeks, that makes me feel weirdly special.
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