24 Nov Fashion police, God-style
I remember being a kid on Sunday mornings watching my friends climb into their parent’s station wagons to go to church. The girls had on prissy, pressed dresses and patent leather mary janes; the boys wore skinny neckties and little plaid sports jackets with sleeves that always seemed too short. They were miniature versions of their parents.
Looking back, I’m not sure who they thought they were kidding. I don’t imagine God was fooled by a primly folded, breast pocket handkerchief or string of pearls.
Being all omniscient, God sees everything, right? He knows what we look like in the morning in our ragtag pajamas and cockeyed bed-head hair. He knows we wear stained jeans and socks with holes in them. He knows, to my horror, the condition of our underwear. And, because he’s so damn omnipotent, he knows how badly we can behave — bitchy and cranky and passive aggressive (who me?) and impatient and judgmental and superior and…oh, how I could go on.
There’s no slipping a mickey past this God guy.
So, why were the people filing into Holy Cross Church in Santa Cruz this morning wearing dresses and stockings and their best leather shoes? Why bother?
Honestly, I have no idea.
As someone who grew up in a heathen household, I missed that lesson. The only special accessory I ever had to wear on a Sunday morning was a sturdy pair of slipper that could withstand the journey between the front door and the driveway where The New York Times lay waiting. The newspaper certainly didn’t care what I was wearing.
Today, as a grown up, I get up on Sunday mornings, read a bit ofThe New York Times then go to services at a spiritual community (a.k.a., a church, for those less allergic to God) where the congregants couldn’t care less what I wear.
As for God? I could be wearing a Groucho Marks nose, a clown wig, a Gianni Versace blouse, pajama bottoms and scuba diving flippers and she wouldn’t blink twice. No matter what I wear, she’s just happy to see me there at all.