As a veteran churchgoer, I’ve logged about 3,650 hours in the Sunday pew.  My childhood church clocked in at one hour a week for Catholic Mass. When I came to my senses at eighteen, I abandoned churchgoing. After a long period of barstool arguments on the God-is-dead theme, I started up churchgoing again at the Metaphysical Center, where I received a “reading” from a medium. The two-hour-long talk between the spiritualist and his dead interlocutor revealed that I had been Harriet Beecher Stowe in a former life.

I like that. Harriet Beecher Stowe, one of the world’s most famous abolitionists, wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin after receiving a vision during a church service. Church is indeed a good place for visions. Clare of Assisi, Joan of Arc, and Theresa of Avila are famous Christian visionaries. And, of course, there’s the fearless Miss Harriet Tubman herself, who led enslaved people through the Underground Railroad at night, led by her visions. 

After I learned as much as my addled brain could absorb in metaphysical spiritualism, I sobered up and joined a Christian fundamentalist cult. It was so extreme that the elders admonished me for making friends at Little League games with parents who were not our kind of Christian. To extricate myself from that legalistic life, I spent a year drinking jugs of vodka in my basement. Turning again to Alcoholics Anonymous, I sobered up through the holy love of AA veterans. 

Since 1979, I’ve been attending a Presbyterian church in downtown Chicago. Yet, I never call myself a Presbyterian. Why? I’m not too sure. Perhaps the residual PTSD from the Christian cult or, Catholicism or, spiritualism protects me from assigning myself religious labels. More likely, I’m not altogether sure I believe what they believe. 

Last Sunday, churchgoers throughout the land heard the parable of the ten virgins, or bridesmaids as they say in today’s lingo. The seven-day wedding feast in ancient times couldn’t begin until the bridegroom arrived. In the story, five wise bridesmaids had working oil lamps when the groom arrived late at night, and they all entered the gate to the feast. The other five foolish bridesmaids were out buying lamp oil and got locked out of the party. In previous preachings, I’d heard Jesus’ explanation of his parable is that we must always be ready, have our lamps lit, awaiting his coming (or was it his second coming?). No wonder I’ve been a nervous wreck my whole life, constantly failing to be ready for Jesus. I really hate parables. 

The church’s new pastor spun the story as a lesson in patience. Be patient because we never know when God will present a reason to throw a party. I had to listen again to him on YouTube because I swear I heard that ominous “Jesus is coming” sermon. This is one of the blessings and curses of old age. My brain holds years-old information, which is a blessing. But that information is a curse when it doesn’t make room for new ideas.

Like with those wily parables.