By David Rose
Up until recently I’d never been to church of my own volition. I’d attended a handful of weddings and a funeral or two, but that, and studying the Renaissance in art history, was the extent of my ecclesiastical experience.
Art is a solitary pursuit and as a life-long hands-to-mouth artist my social skills were never highly developed. Even calling them skills at all would be generous. The isolation during the Time of Corona did not help, and I found myself nearing hermit status. Something needed to be done.
During a prolonged cold snap in January, I screwed up my courage and walked through the doors of the Unitarian Universalist Church (UU) out on Spring Street here in Hot Springs. Everybody was welcoming but that was to be expected. The proof would come when the preacher stepped up the podium. I didn’t want to be shamed for my past transgressions, few though they may have been, or burdened with sins I’d committed before I was even born. I had enough negativity in my life as it was.
As it turns out, the man who stepped to the podium was not a preacher. This branch of the UU church didn’t even have a preacher; here the members of the congregation take turns. I was liking the place already.
The lay leader looked around and welcomed the members. “It sure was cold this week,” he observed.
The congregation, in the typical call and response fashion, asked. “How cold was it?”
“So cold that the politicians were putting their hands in their own pockets.”
The congregation responded with “Hiyoooo,” ala Ed McMahon.
These people weren’t channeling John the Baptist, they were channeling Johnny Carson. I haven’t missed a Sunday since.
