Sing on, dance on, good eye, ain't you happy
The Column: 09.18.23
A good week is a good week; let smarter people deal with the debt ceiling crisis and popularity of authoritarianism, my week began with a happy Sunday in church with a lot of blessing going on — sprinkling the schoolkids, the choir, the congregation — and our rector looking joyful as she marched around casting holy water on people — I thought she might like to use a squirt gun or a watering can or the sprinklers in the ceiling. Her sermon cautioning against perfectionism was, for want of a better word, perfect, and we sang a lively Shaker hymn —
O brethren ain’t you happy, ye followers of the Lamb. Sing on, dance on, followers of Emmanuel, Sing on, dance on, ye followers of the Lamb.
which for an old fundamentalist brought up to believe that rhythmic movement of any sort is wickedness incarnate, was rather exciting. And we confessed to a whole new set of sins such as wasting the earth’s resources, treating its inhabitants unjustly, and “holding future generations hostage to our greed,” which immediately made me feel bad about Medicare, and we admitted to not observing our kinship with all of God’s creatures, which seemed to say we’d now embark on a vegan diet, which I’m not yet ready to do, I’ve given up pride and greed and envy but not the bacon cheeseburger.
I flew off to Minneapolis to attend a Twins game and stayed with my beloved in a hotel that used to be the Milwaukee Road depot where, when I was 18, I took the Hiawatha train to Chicago solo, a big step toward independence and sophistication. The old train shed still stands and I walked under it and recalled the tweed sport coat and chinos I wore, the knapsack I carried, the pack of Marlboros in my pocket. But that was then and this is now.
Minneapolis was my big city as a kid growing up among the truck farms to the north, and at the age of 10 I rode my bike into town past the manufacturing plants that have been converted to condos and through the red-light district, which is now respectable, to the public library and big rooms with long tables piled with fresh new books and if that doesn’t make you want to be an author, then what will? I mostly love the changes and ignore the rest.
At the game I sat next to a true Twins fan named Alex who gave me the lowdown on various players and yelled the right things — “Looked good to me!” at the ump who’d called a strike a ball and “Good eye!” at a Twin who let Ball 3 go by and “Throw him the meatball!” at the opposition pitcher who had an 0-2 count on a Twins batter.
It was a big pleasure, the proximity to genuine fandom. I’m old and out of touch. I paid $45 for a Twins cap: in my mind, it should’ve been $5. The Kramarczuk’s bratwurst stand doesn’t take cash, only credit cards. I don’t get it. What country is this? But I bought one, with kraut and mustard. I’m not used to the raucous music blaring every half-inning though it thrilled the row of girls ahead of us who stood up, hips shaking, arms waving. I come from the era of intense silence. I may be the only person in the ballpark who remembers the fall day in 1969 when Rod Carew got on base with a double, took a big lead, stole third, and the fans sat transfixed in silence, knowing he might do it, wishing he’d do it, and then he did it — he took a daring lead off third and dashed home and slid under the tag and we jumped up and yelled, “YES!” We didn’t need the Stones’ “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” to rouse us, the feat of stealing home was enough. I can still see it in my mind, his perfect timing, the headlong slide.
But there were three triples hit that day, a classic exciting moment, the ball hit to a far corner and perhaps bobbled, the fleet runner dashing, the base coaches windmilling him on. It’s still clear in my memory, and so is the Shaker hymn, which I hope the choir does again someday and if they start dancing, I’ll join them. And someday I may bring a little pipette of water so that if the rector blesses us, I can bless her right back. And bless you, dear reader. Here comes the meatball.
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I find the blaring music during a ball game so off-putting I won’t go again...
I just reread the first lines, and it brought me up short! For an old fundamentalist brought up to believe that rhythmic movement of any sort is wickedness incarnate, was rather exciting. I can “semi-relate!’ My paternal grandmother had been a Methodist missionary to a girl’s school in Poona, India. As a “wedding present,” she sent my parents a dirty white, floral table cloth. The message, they felt, was clear. Since Dad had always been (ad always would be!) a Methodist, she felt he was “dirtying the family table” by marrying, “Heaven Forbid!” a CONGREGATIONALIST! Never mind that my mother was born and raised in Connecticut, and that Roger Williams and the pilgrims had brought their brand of Protestantism with them to New England!
We kept that tablecloth in the upstairs hall closet. It’s still there. Whenever I accidentally come across it, it makes me laugh, once again, at how seriously some people take their particular subset of religious belief. When I went to Cornell as a Freshman, and went to the student chapel, I was amazed to find that they had a three-way altar. It could be rotated from the Jewish background to the Christian background (with a Cross), to some sort of upholstery cloth for the “Others.” I was there for an “Other” service one day, conducted by the Reverend Ernest Werner, of the Ithaca First Unitarian Church. His message was that there are many paths to God, and each one can be valid in it’s own right. It made such a powerful impression on me, that the next Sunday I walked the mile down the hill to check out the Unitarian/Universalist take on faith. And SOLD!
To tell the truth, I think that old, dirty tablecloth had a hand in helping me to find my “Religious Home” in Unitarianism. I could see my straight-laced Methodist Missionary grandmother telling all those Hindu or Buddhist or Brahman Indian young women that they were “WRONG, WRONG, WRONG!” And I almost wanted to go back there and find them and apologize to them for my Grandmother’s short-sightedness! Their culture is important and valuable to them, too!
Well, your Fundamentalist reaction to the teaching that rhythmic dancing was wickedness reminded me, pointedly, that we, as offspring or “grand-offspring” of those in “tight-minded- faiths, come to a point at which we realize that we have to choose our own religious paths for ourselves! I think it’s important that we do this. It means that we invest a personal “ownership” in our beliefs. It becomes not just a “dirty white tablecloth in the closet,” something handed down, with love, or perhaps with spite! And, I think that the messages in APHC mean more to me, because I can identify with Our Fine Host’s fundamentalist background, and with the cultural and familial aspects that go along with it!