This is my first column for The Star News. And I am glad to have it.
There is something important I need to tell Andalusians everywhere.
Y’all got it good in Andalusia.
How is it that I am suddenly an authority on quality-of-life issues in South Alabama?
You see, I have just moved to New York City from The Great State, and believe me, I know. And I am going to use this column on a regular basis to tell you why the life of an Andalusian is superior to the life of a New Yorker.
Most of you probably don’t need to be told that we are superior, but a little reinforcement never hurts. I can hear some of you now, “buddy, that boy must be some kinda fool for movin’ up there with all ’em Yankees “.
After 76 days in this city, I’m beginning to think that too. We’re talking hostage crisis here.
A Manhattan lifestyle is something less than a wonder to behold.
This ain’t no Opp, Alabama.
After about a week of wandering around New York City, I figured I needed some religion.
New Yorkers, by their nature, are charlatans, liars, cheats, and heathens. _. so religion is a stretch for these folks. They believe themselves to be the center of the universe, and if there was a God, he would have bought Jackie O’s apartment on Fifth Avenue.
Being a Presbyterian (which in Andalusia is considered a way-out sect), I began my search for a suitable church home.
I reckoned New York would have some big churches. I was right They have huge churches. But the buildings are so big I had a hard time finding the congregations.
The Rockefellers built the first church I went to. And them ‘fellers sure could throw up a building. Central Presbyterian is a mammoth gothic structure that looms darkly over the street The stained glass windows are nearly black with soot. The walls are smudged with the handprints of years of worshippers, The arched ceiling is webbed with the work of a hundred thousand spiders long gone.
It looked pretty good compared to the rest of New York.
The rickety balcony was closed “due to inadequate attendance.” I suspect if they had *adequate attendance” the balcony would have crashed onto the cracked slate floor.
Once I seated myself on the burgundy pew cushions (which emitted a belch of stuffing), I looked around at my church-going neighbors. Half the congregation was Korean and the other half was asleep.
We stood up to sing out of the new, politically correct hymnal. That is, some of us stood up. The hymn was good old number 390, “Onward Christian People” (Formerly … well, you know). The organist was older than the state of Arizona and the dilapidated organ sounded like an oration from the devil himself We’re talking calliope here. I wondered if a dancing monkey would be taking up the offering.
Then the choir came in. I use the word “choir” generously here. With only four members, it was more like a quartet. One of the women was in her last month of pregnancy, and from the look on her face, while she sang, I thought she might have the baby there in the church. The only man in the bunch sang soprano. And I swear I think that the final two members were Ethel Merman and Old Tallulah Bankhead.
After a few more hymns (“God of our Parents and “Once to Every non-gender Specific Person and Nation”), the time for preaching came around.
The pastor, who will remain nameless, was Rev. Casual. He asked the congregation if they wanted to holler out any prayers, and after they were finished listing every ill and malady conceivable, he launched into a supplication to the Almighty.
He started in a minuscule voice (I think New Yorkers must have genetic nasal blockage), “Oh Got, whose ardt in de Heaven. Hallowt be dye name… ” and after he finished the Lord’s prayer in some Yankee tongue I couldn’t decipher, he start- ed in on his five-minute sermon (okay, okay, I admit there are some advantages to being in New York).
After the service, I went to the coffee hour on the seventh floor of the church house.
Now had I been a lonely visitor at any one of Andalusia’s houses of worship, I would have been swamped with coffee, stuffed with food of every sort, and surrounded by zealots. I would certainly have been asked to Sunday School, a round of golf, and if I was lucky, the Charter House.
At Central 1 was asked to have a cookie. The next church I went to deviated little from the first with the notable exception that the choir was worse. Did you ever want to just punch a tenor in the face?
During the service, the congregation would rise and come shake my hand. At other times during prayers and communion, people would randomly slap me on the back. They clapped after tunes. They whooped during the sermon. It was a rucus.
If there is one thing worse than a rude New Yorker, it’s a rude New Yorker trying to be nice it’s about one of the most pathetic sights I’ve ever seen.
I’m a Presbyterian, and real Presbyterians can’t abide being casual. We are not a casual lot. A worship service is no place to be friendly.
Obviously, I was in need of a “higher church.”
Last week I walked up to The Brick Presbyterian Church. I figured any congregation that would call themselves “Bricks” wouldn’t be running around during the service walloping me while I was trying to pray my way back home. Located on Park Avenue and 91 st Street, The Brick is high- er both literally and figuratively.
It was fancy. Ironically, it looked like the First Baptist Church of Andalusia from the outside, and inside uniquely resembled First Methodist.
I thought it was just wishful thinking when I detected a note of twang in the preacher’s voice – but bless his heart. he was from Lynchburg, Virginia. It was the first sermon in a month of Sundays that could even understand what was being said.
Mercifully, the choir didn’t sound like a band of horse marauders. and I nearly fell out of my pew when they played Amazing Grace.
It must have been fate. I found a home.
Nonetheless, y’all got it good in Andalusia.
I miss that old-time religion.
Send one up for me.