MY BRIEF FLIRTATION WITH UNITARIAN UNIVERSALISM

   I grew up in a Protestant tradition, though not fervently pursued. So, in a time of personal crisis even a secular humorist can be tempted to seek divine comfort. It was at just such a time that I found myself in the receiving line after a Unitarian service. I am an unapologetic liberal, and have been most of my adult life. While quick to see the yawning chasm between the Jimmy Carter Christian's and the Pat Robertson Christians, I have kept both at arms length. However an existential crisis drove me to seek desperate measures.
   The Unitarian Church has long been a haven for progressive thinkers. Speakers on issues such as the environment, economic diversity, or the consequences of corporate personhood could often be found renting out a Unitarian Church to deliver their speeches. I sometimes found myself in attendance. The cars in the parking lot of the Unitarian Church have bumper stickers that read: Earth love it or leave it!, or well-behaved women never make history, or subvert the dominant paradigm. Unitarians are a diverse, friendly, accepting people free of the judgementalism and anger common to their sister churches such as the Southern Baptists. I could never understand how anyone born north of the Mason-Dixon line could be a Southern Baptist, but religion is not always responsive to reason or critical thought.
   An additional factor in the Unitarian Churches that I have been to, outside the urban centers, is that they are situated in a grove of trees with clear glass panels looking out onto the trees as well as the stained-glass panels common to other churches. The worshippers is thus encouraged to look without as well as within. A friend of mine thinks this is a relic of a Druidic legacy.
   The Unitarians are often the butt of secular and religious humor. Garrison Keillor once said that Unitarians have six commandments, and four requests. A relative on my father's side of the family once told my prospective wife and I, "They're not so bad, ya' know". I had attended this particular church a couple Sundays in a row. In a greeting line after the service i described myself as a seeker, and i still am, though I am no longer seeking a supreme being.  On this particular Sunday I had arranged to pick up my two sons, aged 9 and 6, early so we could attended services together. Weekends were for the three of us and church was as remote in my ex-wife's life as it was my own. I was hoping, after our marital split, that the church would offer them the solace I sought for myself.
   We arrived early and were greeted enthusiastically. A woman who taught Sunday School offered to introduce my sons to the other children and led them off. I found a pew near the back of the church and turned my thoughts inward. I was joined by a woman in her 30's with whom I had exchanged pleasantries on my earlier visits. She was tall, maybe 5'10in. In her Birkenstocks, and had light brown hair with Auburn highlights. Her clear skin, high cheekbones and ready smile added to her attractive qualities. I will call her, "The Goddess". Her shoes were not out of place among Unitarians. The devil may wear Prada, but Unitarians prefer Birkenstocks.
   We greeted each other as I stood to accept her handshake. Her eyes were olive. When th organist struck the opening chord, we shared a hymnal to sing the welcoming hymn. I am not a gifted singer, nor do I possess any other musical talent, so I mouthed the words softly, entranced by her melodious voice. Throughout the hymn we exchanged glances and our hands touched near the spine of the hymnal. I was beginning to imagine that my exile from the company of women may be coming to an end, perhaps even my celibacy.
   As we sat I returned the hymnal to its place on the back of the pew in front of us. The minister approached the pulpit and nodded to the choir. She wore a grey wool suit with a white surplice adorned with a cross. I could not see if she was wearing Birkenstocks. I do not remember her sermon, my mind was busy with competing thoughts. Each part of the service was broken up by the small, clear bell being struck. We sang the proffered hymns and listened intently to the choir as the warmth of the Goddess' leg carried through my dress slacks. After communion and the offering, the service reached its penultimate moment. We stood to sing the invitation and I reached for the hymnal. In that moment a chain of events was set in motion that I would never recover from: i felt the hymnal slip from my grasp. My voice abandoned me somewhere between my brain and my epiglottis. I thrust out my hand to nudge The Goddess aside, but it was too late. The hymnal had landed squarely on her instep. Not a peep escaped her lips though her skin reddened slightly. She was gracious as I inarticulately tried to apologize. I had fumbled on the goal line and the game was at an end.
   We parted company, me red-faced, still apologizing. My sons joined me and we were carried by the movement of the congregation to the back of the sanctuary where coffee and home-made cookies were being served. I wanted to disappear, to wake up from a bad dream. I had become the butt of some comic joke. The Sunday School teacher appeared and complimented my sons on their talents and politeness. Others from the congregation pressed in to meet my sons and offer welcoming words. There was no sign of the Goddess.
   When at last we crossed the threshold of the church into the welcoming sun, my sons asked if they had to do this again. They were relieved when I told them, no. Providence, whether divine or otherwise, had made that decision for all of us.