By Frieda Marie Crump
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Greetin’s from the Ridge.
Aunt Eleanor was big into the Wrath of God theory. Every whipstitch she’d label something or another as the Wrath of God.
The first wrath I can remember was the hula-hoop. When Eleanor first witnessed the gyrating hula hips on her sidewalk she firmly pronounced that the plastic hoops were the Wrath of God and would most surely lead to uninhibited sex in the grass with a matter of minutes.
As far as I can recall there were no hoop-induced orgies on Aunt Eleanor’s yard but that didn’t stop her from predicting further retributions by the Almighty.
Rock and roll figured somewhere on her list of plagues and eternal catastrophes. She actually imagined she saw horns coming from the top of Buddy Holly’s head, and swore she could smell brimstone coming from her granddaughter’s stereo when she played Herman’s Hermits’ "Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter."
I can hear my mother remarking that perhaps Aunt Eleanor had gone to far with her latest prophesy. I was proud and astonished to have the only aunt in town who knew what brimstone smelled like.
Wrath prediction has been a big part of the American psyche, as we’ve become the most morally lax and the most morally proper nation in Western Civilization. Some early churches claimed that taking baths indoors was the latest sign of an approaching Armageddon. They figured we were headed for a wrath bath.
I can remember when the first set of drums appeared at our Coonridge Semi-Denominational church. Thank God Aunt Eleanor was dead or the crash cymbal would have done her in right in the middle of the offertory.
I am constantly amazed at the huge number of people who claim to know the mind of God yet don’t seem to mind God.
A few well-known Muslims have recently told us that God would have the Western world annihilated in short order. An equal number of prominent Christians claim that the same God has His assault rifle aimed squarely at the Muslim world. At least we aren’t lacking for prophets. Somebody stole my lawn mower about fifteen years ago and it was one of the most God-ordained events of life. I’ve hired a mower boy ever since.
But in the two-week interim while I was searching for young man to trim my grass, a lawn prophet politely informed me that God wants us to keep our yard tidy. She was serious. I was not so much angered as I was saddened at the children who starved for two weeks while God worried about my yard.
The grand poobahs of several protestant denominations have recently advocated that perhaps we should love each other regardless of race, creed, sexual inclination or the type of clothing worn by the pastor. This has come as a jarring shock to those prophets among us who consider it their job to guard closely the doors of their moral country club.
I feel for them, I truly do. When you aren’t allowed to hate anybody, it takes the fun right out of the job.
In my piddly span of years attending church I have seen controversies over how fast the prelude should be played, whether a padded pew can be truly holy, the fact that the pastor wore a rainbow on her collar, the fact that the pastor had the gall to be born female at all, whether the congregation should stand up or sit down at several key points in the service, the color the carpet/hymn book/fellowship hall/bulletin/communion tray/Jello.
Okay, I was just kidding about the Jello. But I’ve got to wonder…if I was searching around for the meaning of life, would I purposely walk into a gaggle of folks who on one hand shout love, hope, and forgiveness from the mountaintops while being just plumb disagreeable down the valley?
There have been some mighty hard lines drawn in the sand in the past few years and some of these lines are starting to resemble a ditch that’s going to be mighty hard for future generations to cross.
I have a solution if there’s space enough squeeze it into the service. If you’re thinking of applying for the job of prophet, you might want to consider about sixty years of hard work first. AIDS is decimating Africa, the homeless are at our doorsteps, and there’s a whole generation of kids out there who desperately need the love of God.
Work hard and ease up on the condemnation. Truth is, when the wrath of God finally comes, it’ll likely be because there’s just too darned much wrath.
You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.