Hetouchedmeorthemisadventuresofanaspieinchurch

Topic: "He Touched Me: or The Misadventures of an Aspie in Church" 1.1 year ago

#9,763

"I see myself as an intelligent, sensitive human, with a soul of a clown which forces me to blow it at the most important moments." - Jim Morrison "I love God and he loves me... that's all there is to it." - My baby sister, Kassidy, may she rest in peace.

"How did I get myself talked into this... and why do these robes have to be so hot?"

"Hot is right, boyfriend!" Cherry, an African-American drag queen, had a voice like a lisping cement mixer, and the shoulders of a linebacker. She was an unlikely candidate for our church choir, but a real sweet gal nonetheless. Also, she clearly had a crush on me.

"Oh dear," I sighed. I'd never been a praying kinda guy, but if ever there was a time to start...

As an Aspie, I tend to be stubbornly logical. My skepticism is hardwired, an integral part of my personality.

Naturally, I find organized religion a bit hard to swallow. So how exactly did I end up singing in the church choir with a bickering lot of elderly women and one flirtatious, black transvestite?

It all started when I took a job at a flower shop. My employer Gerald, a flamboyant, 65 year-old man, was as moody, and melodramatic as Joan Crawford in a wire hanger factory. He had a creepy habit of treating his business like a Bible camp for wayward youth. A week after I began work, he offhandedly declared that I would be joining the church choir. That little employment stipulation must have been in the application's fine print.

So there I was trying on robes, hotter than hell in the middle of church. "Why do we have to wear these things during practice?" I complained. Heat sensitivity is one of my many annoying autistic ailments.

"We have to look good for Jesus!" hissed Doris, a terribly fragile and wrinkled old woman who seemed to think she was second in command to the almighty Himself.

"Could you point me to the passage in the Bible that says Christ judges people by the clothes they wear?" I sneered.

"Shut up young man," Gerald said, pinching me in the side.

"I'm sorry," I said, turning to Doris. "By the way, I cried when you threw that blue diamond off the Titanic."

This is my problem. I'm a real smart-Aspie sometimes. Don't get me wrong, many people deserve a good verbal lashing, but I tend to overdo it. It is hard for me to understand that viscous sarcasm is not the best way to win friends and influence people.

"I think you look handsome in your robe," Cherry said, biting her lip.

“Look Cherry, your're not exactly my type."

Cherry's face contorted with shock and grief and she pressed her hand to her chest. "What?! Is it because I'm black?"

"Cherry... I... um... You look nice in your robe too." The words flew out of my mouth and I immediately regretted them. I hadn’t meant to encourage her. "Oh look, practice is starting..."

We shuffled into the choir and took our seats before the director. "Let's begin," he said very loudly. Ironically enough, our choir director was nearly deaf. "We will begin with, 'He Touched Me,' a very beautiful hymn."

"Oh good grief," I said. "Can't we sing 'Spirit in the Sky,' something a little less geriatric?"

Regardless of my protests, we commenced singing. Our choir was... less than talented. Actually, we were abysmal. I worried we were hurting God's ears. The women sounded like screeching, tropical birds and the few scattered men didn't make any sound at all. Instead, they stood awkwardly mouthing the words and staring at their feet, hoping no one would notice their silence. In truth, we could've all just shut up and swayed to the music, seeing as no one could be heard over Doris anyway. She was belting it out in a shattering soprano, sounding for all the world like the wicked witch of the west on helium. Still, you can't blame a gal for trying and Doris was working those empty pews like a true diva; Ethel Merman eat your heart out!

Cherry was staring at me from across the room. "He touched me…" Cherry’s fixed gaze was broken as her eyes rolled back in her head.

I winced.

“He touched me and made me whole…”

After that first song, the choir director made an announcement, "Ok, I've got a special treat for y’ all. Rick is setting up some monitors that will feed you all the lyrics while you sing."

"We’re going to eat lyrics? What?" Doris snapped. To say Doris was set in her ways would be a gross understatement. The slightest whisper of change would send her into a panic.

"Monitors," the director repeated. "The lyrics to the songs will appear on the screen."

"You mean... machines? In choir? This isn’t one of those rock and roll, dance in the isles, shake your behind to praise His name churches!" Doris was heated now. I was reminded of Dana Carvey doing church-lady on Saturday Night Live.

"Well, go ahead and show 'em Rick," said the director.

Rick quickly set up the monitors while several of the men took the opportunity to nap. He then pressed a button on the keyboard and the lyrics to "He Touched Me" began appearing. Gasps escaped from the horrified women.

"What is this?" one demanded.

"It is sheer blasphemy," Doris declared.

"I just love those lyrics," said Gerald. "He touched me... mmm!"

"But how are those words appearing all on their own?" exclaimed one little old woman, nearly in tears.

I couldn't believe it. I was reminded of the scene in "2001: A Space Odyssey" where the monolith appears to our ape forebears, frightening and confusing them.

"How is it no one has managed to drag you people out of the stone age?" I asked.

"I like computers," said Cherry. "I'm on myspace."

"I will not have this and God won't either," said Doris. "Mark my words..."

"Shut up!" I barked. "Doris, people like you give Christians a bad name! No wonder this church has such low attendance. The world changes! Nobody wants to come to a stale, empty tomb so a bunch of old buzzards can look 'em over and determine their Christian worth! Nobody is worthy of Christ. That’s the whole point. God wouldn’t have sent His son if we could make it to heaven without Him." I stood and marched out of the loft. "And by the way, none of us can sing!"

On the walk home I began to regret what I'd said. Church brings out the worst in me. I grew up surrounded by phony, self-indulgent Christians, the kind who seem to think entry into heaven requires them to drive a Mercedes, hate homosexuals, and gossip about the sinful behavior of others. Faculty members of my Christian high school told me that God gave my sister leukemia to punish me for my lack of faith. Members of the church advised my parents to seek an exorcist, rather than a doctor, to treat my hyperactivity. I was constantly reminded that my eternal damnation was imminent.

A wiser individual would have simply ignored this religious fanaticism. I, however, fought back… fiercely. I wasn’t subtle or polite about my disdain for the church. I was endlessly offensive. Back then, I’d never heard of Asperger Syndrome. Neither, apparently, had anyone else; my run-ins with religious authority figures were tragically, and hilariously autistic, yet no one suspected that a percentage of my behavioral issues were organic. The indications were far from subtle… I might as well have been wearing a scarlet A for Aspie across my chest, like the autistic version of Hester Prynne in the Nathaniel Hawthorne novel. But the response was always the same, “Autistic?

Scotty? No way, that kid is too smart. He could be possessed by a demon though.” Yeah, ‘cause that’s a far more scientifically plausible theory. Once out of my parent’s house, I vowed never to set foot in a church again.

Yet only a few years later I was singing in the church choir. How did I always get myself into these situations? For the first time, I considered the possibility that I was partly to blame. I'm very good at standing up for myself... at all the wrong times. I should have told Gerald that I was not comfortable joining the choir, and if necessary, reminded him that my refusal was not lawful grounds for termination. It was wrong for me to willingly enter into such an uncomfortable situation. I determined that I would sing in choir that Sunday, and then I would politely beg off membership.

Needless to say, that particular Sunday service was a disaster, though I can proudly claim that I did my best not to have a negative impact. It all started when Doris fell asleep during the sermon and began snoring loudly. I had managed not to laugh, until the pastor said, "In this technological age, there are many noises to distract us from God..."

I looked from the pastor, to Doris, to the monitors. It was all too fitting. I fell into a fit of hysterics. I regained my composure when the pastor stopped speaking and stared at me. “Oops…”

It was agonizingly hot so I began fanning myself with a heavy leather hymnal to avoid sweating through my robe.

Gerald was glaring at me. He snatched the hymnal out of my hand and thumped me on the head with it. "OWW," I cried loudly. The pastor paused again. “Oh, please continue, father…” I called over the congregation.

“He’s a pastor, not a father,” Gerald said, through gritted teeth.

At the sermon’s end, the pastor announced that it was time to take communion. I do not take communion as I'm not a Christian. Instead, I sat in the loft and watched the choir members descend to the altar. On the way down, before the entire silent and reverent congregation, Cherry tripped and fell flat on her face, her wig flying off as she screamed obscenities. I began to laugh, and then felt horrible, standing and hurrying to help her up. I decided, regardless of my principles, that it would be best if I relented and took communion with her.

As we kneeled at the altar, Cherry whispered to me, "I'm so embarrassed. Now everyone knows what I am. They know I’m not really a woman and they know God hates me."

"Cherry," I said, "God doesn't hate you. He loves you just as you are. He loves everyone. He loves me... and He loves Doris. He loves us when we do the right thing and when we do the wrong thing too."

"God is love," Cherry breathed. She was crying. "Thanks boyfriend."

The next day I told Gerald I would not be singing in the choir. "That's fine he said. We don't need your help anyway... not in the choir or at my shop."

There were a million vicious, sarcastic things I could have said, but I didn't. I didn't protest at all. What could I do?

The world is unfair. Whether Buddhist or Protestant, life is suffering… but God is love. "God bless you," I said to Gerald, "keep in touch..."

I stepped outside, looked up to the sky, and thought of my sister, who fought cancer for seven years before it took her life. Throughout her illness, she rarely stopped smiling. Life is suffering… but God is love.