Heaven's Gate

    “Do you remember that movie about a young guy who ran away from his memories of youth, and became the opposite personification of who he’d been raised to be? It had that guy in it who played the crazier of the tree guys in the movie Easy Rider. I think I heard he died, but can’t be sure.”

    “Dennis Hopper?”

    “Yes, Dennis Hopper. Do you remember that movie?”

    “Flashback! Yes, I remember it. Happened to watch it a while back. One of those nights when you are looking for something familiar, something predictable, while caring about neither.”

     I’ve had my share of nights like that. Tired of the chaos, tired of the noise, not old enough to go to heaven, to young to be deserving of hell. All I wanted to do was escape into the land of tea parties, rabbit holes, and hookahs.

     My conversation this morning got me to thinking, not about anything monumental per usual, but something from the past. Like being punched in the soul by a habit you believed you were done with; takes you back, while at the same time reminding you only too much of the present. It was the memory of that day in the church, when I decided I’d bought a ticket only to discover, it was to the wrong show, that I began to question the indecisiveness of skepticism.

     I guess it is not all that unusual to come to a cross roads, be faced with a choice, and have no idea which way to go. It was like that for me that day. The old weathered sign was pointing in one direction, towards “Eternity.” The other direction, nothing, blank, peeling paint, but providing the temptation of adventure you’d not felt in a long time. I, as you might have guessed, and not because the pews were uncomfortable, but because at a certain age everything different, is better that what you know, was religiously disoriented. 

     It is the kind of feeling that builds for a time. You don’t realize it as it is happening, but you are collecting and weighing the do’s and don’ts, the positives, negatives, heavens, hells, your soul disappearing, a doubt at a time. 

    Perhaps I’m being overly dramatic, but at the time I remember the stained windows of the church becoming mute, the incense smelling of chocolate, the choirs lips moving, but feeling only the vibrations of the organ in my ears. The difference between heaven and hell feeling like purgatory, or the bus stop during a bus strike. You kind of know nothing is happening but refuse to believe it, because you can’t think of an alternative.

    There is something about being told to listen to God when He's talking to you, and you not wanting to listen, because the bases are loaded and Rhubarb McGee is at bat. You didn’t want to miss the action, you could listen to God whenever, or so you’d been told, since your first suit coat and ugly tie. 

    None of it made any sense that day. We weren’t being asked which flavor of ice cream we preferred, but whether we chose to follow in the footsteps of the dead statues scrutinizing the stations of the cross, or Beelzebub, the guy with the rolled-up sleeves of a t-shirt, cigarette pack tucked into the folds, hair slicked back in Dean style, the sounds of motor cycles rumbling in the background, and visored caps sprouting gold wings drifting like parade confetti towards…?

    It was then that reality knelt next to you and whispered in your ear, “What you thinkin? Goin to make a break for it? Might cost you your soul, or worse, your spot in the choir. Think about it. Your decision will follow you the rest of your life.” Poof! You are alone in the hallowed vault containing billions of unanswered prayers, and find yourself reflexively turning towards the accepted plea for help, while considering yourself a hypocrite. 

    Had it not been for Duncan the altar boy dropping the decanter of wine, so disrupting Father Flannigan, he in an attempt to retrieve the as yet to be blood of a savior, let the wafered premonition of Christ’s body slip from his hand, I might have made that odious decision that would affect the remainder of my jeopardized spiritual life. As it turned out, it became the revelation I’d been expecting. Well, if not expecting, hoping for. A sign pointing me in the direction of which path to take; hopefully a sign from God or one of his associates.

    We become indoctrinated by God’s teachings, which give us hope, but at the same time distills a sense of doubt from our ability to grasp, the official meaning of what truth is being revealed. It is the nature of faith to attest to the untestable, because you are given no options, despite the fact you believe there should be minimally one.

    The sign from Duncan that to error is human, and the backstop response from Father Flannigan that verified the assumption, left me with a dychotomy of faith, not to mention the disappointment inherent in a singular sign. I was no better off than I’d been earlier, although I was no longer being tested by the hardened attributes of the pew.

     If it had not been for Jeanine slipping through the doors, seemingly undeterred by the men standing at guard holding collection baskets, I may have been baptized by doubt. Her lack of head covering was obvious, as was her obligatory reaction to having failed the expectation of all females entering the god’s house. She placed her prayer book on her head in an effort to keep the eyes of God, from seeing her fail to comply with tradition; I could only hope it helped. 

     Her lack of expected etiquette, despite her forgetfulness, caused me to stand in unionized protest, and mumble something about having to use the restroom to her mother seated next to me.

    I dipped my fingers in the holy water in protest as I passed the fountain. I had suffered immeasurable pain for nearly an hour on the wooden rack, and other than the spilt blessing to be, I had received no demonstrable sign I’d taken the correct fork in the proverbial road.

     I had upon self-examination of my mystical projectory, realized I had gained little more than a respect for Jeanine I had not harbored previously, and wondered who had dropped a 1935 Indian Head nickel into the holy water fountain. It was an act that I was sure rivaled the audacity of Major League Baseball in demanding, Cleveland find a new representative Icon for their baseball team.

    I keep being told God works in mysterious ways, and I can find no better example of that, than the remembrance of a multi-million-dollar organization changing its image based on an Indian Head Nickel, or possibly the cultural insensitivity it represented.