As a teenager, I was what was known as a PK -- a Preachers' Kid (and before the grammarians start shaking their heads, the plural possessive is correct, both my parents were ministers). It was a strange world to grow up in, very controlling and overwhelming and righteous. Perhaps that's why I tend to delight in all things irreverent (things my mother would call blasphemous). In 8th grade, I went swimming with Terry Tipton in the baptismal pool in the church where we went to Christian school. As a protest against the line in the Pledge of Allegiance that says "one nation under God" (whatever happened to separation of church and state?), I always say "one nation under Bob."
So this morning as my husband Andrew was getting ready to go to a morning chapel service, part of the annual Founders' Day celebration at the school where he teaches, he was telling me about the various traditions the day would entail. First, he and several friends would meet for breakfast as they always do before the Founders' Day service. "There's the sweepstakes," he said, "and the teachers process into the abby in our robes and hoods, in order according to length of tenure..."
"Wait, sweepstakes?" I asked. Even though it's Church of England and therefore foreign to me, completely different from the Oklahoma pentacostal world of my parents, I couldn't imagine where gambling fit in. "What's the sweepstakes?"
"On the length of the sermon," he said. "We all place bets on how long it will be. The head of the history department is the official timekeeper. The person who gets closest to the time wins 20 quid."
What a fabulous idea, I thought. I imagined how much money I could've made, how much boredom might have been alleviated, if we'd had such a sweepstakes going for every sermon when I was growing up. Instead of rolling eyes and passing notes back and forth among friends, we'd have had something to root for. And God would be horrified! Or at least my parents would. Which I guess ultimately was the point of my rebellion.
In case anyone is wondering, Andrew got home a few minutes ago. He didn't win. He'd had 12 minutes 30 seconds (clearly this is the religion to grow up in, our sermons used to last more than an hour!), and "the bugger ended it in under seven minutes!" I'm also happy to report no one was struck by lightning coming out of the service.
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