Folks, I knew it would happen – I turned 40-years-old in June and became, like, old almost overnight.
I became aware of that last Wednesday afternoon. My 12-year-old son was wearing a pair of gym shorts and a tee shirt.
“G’bye,” the boy said.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Church. With my friend blah-blah.”
“Dressed like that?”
“Yeah, that’s how everyone dresses there.”
“Where? The First United Church of Dude?”
Apparently, things are very casual at that church on Wednesday nights and I suppose that’s fine. However, I was raised to observe at least a bit of formality when it comes to church. The big hubbub when I was a kid was whether people ought to show up in Wednesdays in jeans.
Apparently, that issue was resolved years ago and people are now wandering off to church dressed like they’re ready to mow the lawn. Perhaps that’s OK, but I could just imagine the sermon.
“Dudes and dudettes,” the pastor might say. “That Jesus cat was gnarly, man. I mean, like, way gnarly. Whoa!”
That image has plagued me for a week now.