Church Signs: Guest Rant
This week, it's my pleasure to present a guest rant from my favorite blogger, Jon Reed.
Church Signs: "Home Is Where the Manna Stops"
When a church puts up as message like "Home is Where the Manna Stops," I have to tip my pagan cap. It's about time that someone acknowledged it: for many of us, that tasty (and miraculous) holy bread did not make it inside the front door. I'm used to getting the Lord shoved down my throat. But this thoughtful congregation recognizes that for many of us, home was not about Manna; home was about Wonder Bread and making people feel a little smaller so they wouldn't forget where they came from and to whom they could attribute their self-loathing. Home was not so much a holy place as a place to be impregnated with our family's failures and prejudices, a chance to learn firsthand about alcoholism and drug addiction, workaholic neglect, and subtler forms of emotional manipulation that are as much a part of our existential challenge as anything we must overcome after we leave our homes in search of that sweet Manna, chasing after that childhood scent which lingered outside our doors, giving us Godly solace while we hugged our pets close and dreamed of better days. No, we didn't necessarily get cigarettes stamped on our palms like Bender of the Breakfast Club, but we didn't bake miraculous bread in our kitchens either. As for my family, we had stale whole wheat, good intentions and some Silly Putty. It would be nice to say we all turned out okay, but unfortunately there wasn't enough Manna to go around and not all of us did. Still, it's comforting to know I can walk right into that church and grab a slice. I like knowing there's at least one Christian institution that won't insist on the holiness of what went on inside my home. And to think that all this time, I thought we were wounded people doing the best we could! As it turns out, we just had the wrong bread.
Church Signs: "Home Is Where the Manna Stops"
When a church puts up as message like "Home is Where the Manna Stops," I have to tip my pagan cap. It's about time that someone acknowledged it: for many of us, that tasty (and miraculous) holy bread did not make it inside the front door. I'm used to getting the Lord shoved down my throat. But this thoughtful congregation recognizes that for many of us, home was not about Manna; home was about Wonder Bread and making people feel a little smaller so they wouldn't forget where they came from and to whom they could attribute their self-loathing. Home was not so much a holy place as a place to be impregnated with our family's failures and prejudices, a chance to learn firsthand about alcoholism and drug addiction, workaholic neglect, and subtler forms of emotional manipulation that are as much a part of our existential challenge as anything we must overcome after we leave our homes in search of that sweet Manna, chasing after that childhood scent which lingered outside our doors, giving us Godly solace while we hugged our pets close and dreamed of better days. No, we didn't necessarily get cigarettes stamped on our palms like Bender of the Breakfast Club, but we didn't bake miraculous bread in our kitchens either. As for my family, we had stale whole wheat, good intentions and some Silly Putty. It would be nice to say we all turned out okay, but unfortunately there wasn't enough Manna to go around and not all of us did. Still, it's comforting to know I can walk right into that church and grab a slice. I like knowing there's at least one Christian institution that won't insist on the holiness of what went on inside my home. And to think that all this time, I thought we were wounded people doing the best we could! As it turns out, we just had the wrong bread.
Labels: church signs
posted by Naomi at 1:01 PM
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