I can and often do spend up to three days in the same clothes– not because of any depression or lack of ambition. Nope. I just forget. Tessa never says anything– even though I might be on my third day in my Jack Daniels pajamas.
But today, I actually put on jeans and a tank top. Like I was going to church or something. Hey, at least it’s a black tank top. I don’t actually go to church like this. I don’t have nearly enough tattoos to go to church in just a tank top. So, I stayed home.
I’m not joking. Before the Tattoo Age we currently live in, I could go to church in a tank top with a pliers in a leather holster on my belt and cow shit on my boots. Not a lot of cow shit. And always dry. If I had wet cow shit on my boots, I would change to some boots with dry cow shit. I hardly smelled at all.
But now everybody’s all clean and inked up at church. I don’t fit in. So I just stay home and listen to Archbishop Fulton Sheen on my iPod. Yes, I still use an iPod. You can get them for a song now. Sheen takes me back to a simpler time. Whoever posted the mp3s of Sheen’s sermons online used an old record player, and you can hear the scratches.
This morning, he was explaining why there were shepherds and wise men at the Nativity. One group were simple men who knew that they knew nothing. And the other group were wise men who knew they didn’t know everything. “Never the man with one book. Never the man who thinks that he knows.”
I’m pretty sure I will spend the next several days or weeks remembering that. It’s not exactly an intimation of divine joy. But it’s all I have capacity for anymore.
I asked Jesus what he thought of my diminishing faith. He goes, “Dude. You dressed yourself. That’s almost just about enough, sometimes.”