Chrisonomicon

Tuesday, February 19, 2002

I missed yoga today because I woke up two hours ago. The clock face was an angry, red, "10:54" and I had an appointment with my hustler at eleven. He was going to kick my ass. I jumped out of bed, threw some clothes on and ran out the door with the car keys dangling from my mouth, attracting attention from neighbors who were milling around my parking lot (Don't they have jobs?). Exactly six minutes later, I sighed inwardly as I pulled into the parking lot, relieved I wasn't late again because he probably would have been pretty peeved, considering I missed last week's appointment as well. (Everything is more exciting when you replace "financial advisor" with "hustler.")

Half-an-hour later, I was chowing down on a salty, nutty hummus-on-bagel sandwich at Einstein's when I ran across this article detailing Christian Fundamentalists in Tennessee. These types of stories are guilty pleasures for me, not because I'm a closet Fundamentalist, but because I'm always intrigued by the things they say, the activities they participate in. It's a sort of do-people-really-do-that kind of interest.

The accompanying photograph (in the print version) is even better: a thirty-something pastor preaching to a congregation, the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled up in a lets-get-some-preachin'-done manner, his eyes pinched shut, and his hand reaching out in supplication. I just kept thinking, His eyes are closed. Perhaps he was praying really hard or maybe it was bad timing on the part of the photographer but the idea of a self-imposed blindness kept resounding in my head whenever my eyes would return to the image of those eyes shut like fists.