Hallelujah No More

 

Mike Nettleton

I quit the choir.

I know, I know. It doesn’t have quite the same impact as Bob Marley’s “I Shot the Sheriff.”

Maybe if I sang it to a reggae beat. But, no, that would be counter to the attitude and mood of the choir I quit.

Regal. Somber, Stately. Reverent. That’s what our Christmas show song lineup reflected. Smile-inducing, finger snapping, tush wriggling rhythm? Not so much.

Let me be clear. I loved singing with the choir. Even the part where I had to phonetically learn lyrics in Latin (2 this time around) or another language. I was anticipating a potato harvest worshipping cha-cha in Bratislavian  but it didn’t materialize.

Those I harmonized with are all lovely people. I have nothing but enduring respect for our choir director, the somewhat misnamed Dr. Funk. I say somewhat, because it’s the name he was born with, not chose. If he’d selected it, I’d propose he change it to Dr. White Guy From Kansas. Or perhaps Professor Placid.

To be fair, there are moments of pure ecstasy in the music he chose for the show. When the assembled voices blend into one heavenly hallelujah, it still sends little tiny fun bumps down my spine. The problem is not the sound; it’s the root of the hallelujah.

I am a devout agnostic. Not devout enough that I’d don a white shirt, tie and Goodwill store slacks to go door knocking, offering to read aloud passages from the Book of Norman. Although, I’d have to admit that several verses of the Gospel of “I Dunno” are fun to holler.

My disenchantment with organized religion dates back to the day when, at eleven years old, I saw my hellfire-and-brimstone Sunday school teacher, the off-duty lawyer Renton Frady, on the streets of Coos Bay, canoodling with a paint-and-powder woman of negotiable virtue. From then on, my choice of churches centered on who needed a power-hitting third baseman on their softball team.

The reason I quit the choir (but I didn’t shoot the pianist down) was the pervasive references to the baby Jesus and the wise men and Mother Mary. I just couldn’t stay on key while grimacing. As I wrote in my resignation letter, it felt more like a church service than entertainment. And I don’t do church anymore. Unless you’re in need of a third baseman.

So, (according to the ever-vigilant Carolyn) I need to find something else to do with my idle time. Maybe I’ll continue to draw bad cartoons for my ongoing strip “The non-adventures of Recliner Man.” Which, ironically, features a hero with nothing but idle time. Or perhaps I’ll audition for a community theater play. Face it, there’s nobody better at portraying a dissolute wino on stage than me. Or, I could just hunker down and play computer cribbage, eat cashews and occasionally blog. Yesssss! That’s the ticket!

To satisfying my singing Jones, I could occasionally wander into a smoke-infused karaoke bar and belt out Gloria Estaban’s Conga to accompany the wriggling video on the screen.

“C’mon baby do the conga. You know you can’t control yourself any longuh!”

Hallelujah!!!