Doug Brown

A few months ago now, right at the start of my 100 churches experiment, I went along to a church that up until now, I’d forgotten to mention.

Feeling a bit overwhelmed knowing that I had nearly one hundred to choose from, I opted for the tried and true method of opening Saturday’s paper, closing my eyes and praying for guidance while my finger hovered indecisively over the page. Pause for effect, then BANG! Bring it down emphatically, confident that whatever I landed on would be the Lord’s will for me that day. Tentatively opening one eye, I discovered that I would be attending… “Sea Breeze Holiday Cabins. Self Cont. family accom. Best $ value. Enq. about our special 4 day package.”

I eventually decided to attend The Baptist Church in the Same Suburb As My Favourite Thai Restaurant (“you like Thai?” “Sure! You like shirt?”) For a while I was enjoying feeling rather independent and aloof at the thought of marching into a strange church alone – so I pretended not to feel relief when I receive a text from R, wondering if I would be starting my pointless spiritual expedition that Sunday, and if so, could she come too? With an hour to kill before the service started, I managed to ply another friend, C, over Facebook chat with promises of fun and fellowship. And chocolate. And when that didn’t work, I teased her about a guy at her church who was preaching that night, who is just a little bit in love with her, and would most likely be scanning the audience for her supportive, reassuring, ‘could-be-my-future-wife-if-it’s-the-Lord’s-will’ face. That one did the trick.

Taking our places in the customary Second From The Back Pew For Uncertain Visitors Who May Wish To Make A Quick Getaway But Don’t Want To Appear Too Reluctant By Sitting In The Very Back Row, R announced that she had brought a book along “in case it got boring”. What a great idea! (Note to self: next time, take a book.) After much nervous a-hemming, the 30-something male worship leader joyfully informed us that this was the contemporary service, and in the contemporary service, almost anything could happen. It was a bit unpredictable like that. A bit zany. A little bit wacky. So hold onto your seats, people – it could be a wild ride! I glanced over at pretty much the only other people there – some tartan-clad elderly folk perched in the front row. Were they prepared for this uncertainty? I hoped they’d be okay.

First there was an item – an earnest “Jesus Is My Boyfriend” type ballad by the aforementioned leader. You could see that his heart was in the right place. Unfortunately, you could hear that his pitch… wasn’t. I glanced across at R. She had opened her book already. We’d been seated for a whole five minutes. C glanced at me, leaned over and whispered, “So what was that you said about chocolate earlier?”

After the usual bunch of Hillsong ballads followed by the ten minute guilt trip that we’ve all come to know and love as “taking up the tithes and offerings”, we were told that there was a special guest speaker tonight, Mr Doug Brown. He was introduced as an “itinerant speaker from Launceston” – surely a contradiction in terms. Oh well, I thought, there’s gotta be at least one good speaker in Launceston, right? And surely if this guy is farming himself out to various churches, he must be kind of in demand, which means he might just know what he’s talking about… right? Right?

Wrong. The guy was a tool. Not so much in the clap trap he was spouting (it was all same-old, same-old really), but in the way he delivered it. He was just oozing this vibe: “I am very wise and learned. You minions could do well to listen to the precious pearls flowing forth from my golden gob. I am the Lord’s anointed vessel. Pay heed! Turn ye, and repent! Forsooth!” He gave me the creeps. Seriously. I could not WAIT to leave. My skin was crawling.

The second the service finished, at the first available moment, all three of us leapt to our feet and made for the exit. To our surprise, the pastor, who had been up the front about three seconds earlier, was somehow waiting at the door to shake our hand. I swear there’s some sort of wormhole that pastors use between the front of the church and the main exit – “quick! They’re getting awaaaay!” Anyway, the pastor seemed harmless enough. I was just glad to be out of there. Glad that I’d never have to hear Doug Brown, Itinerant Speaker, ever again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So, anyhoo, (anyhoo? What am I, fifty?) I was at Thump Plate a few weeks after that, just before I buggered off for good. I was there because I had said I would play piano. With the first half of my duties over, there was only the last ‘wake us up before we go-go’ song left to play after the sermon. Good. Only half an hour to wait. That’s not so bad, I thought. I’ll just sit up the back in the sun, and listen to this visiting speaker, Mr… Mr…

Mr Doug Brown.

Hmm. The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t figure out where I knew it from. It wasn’t until he started his spiel that I suddenly remembered. AAARGH! THIS GUY AGAIN! NOOOOOoooooooo…

So, completely against my will, I sat through another round of Doug Brown’s utter tripe. I couldn’t go anywhere, because I could be called upon to play piano at any point. I wanted to punch him by the end of the ordeal. He was, if possible, even more smarmy and self-righteous than the first time I’d had the misfortune to hear him. When he finally shut the hell up, I felt unclean. I couldn’t believe I’d had to go through all that again. Thank goodness it was over.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Last Sunday, even though I’d all but given up on my experiment out of frustration and boredom, a couple of friends of mine who are currently looking for a church to join decided it was high time I had another dose too. Fair enough then, I thought – surely it couldn’t hurt. After all, it had been a while.

So off I went, this time to The Church Across from Chickenfeed. As I drove along the road to find a parking spot, I noticed about fifteen people milling around outside Chickenfeed’s front doors, hunched over with their coats over their heads for warmth, looking downcast. The sight puzzled me at first. But it soon became obvious why they were there when an efficient-looking girl in a sensible red shirt brusquely opened the sliding doors to the store, and they all shuffled in like sheep to the shearing shed. I was highly amused. I mean, I’d heard of people lining up for concerts and such, but to join a queue on a Sunday morning so that you wouldn’t miss out on a two dollar packet of wooden pegs, or an 80s B-side compilation CD was just ridiculous. What amused me even more was that Ms Efficient didn’t even seem surprised. Was this a regular occurrence on a Sunday morning? Or any other morning for that matter? Ha ha.

I made it into my seat without being sullied by any handsy old men or women – bonus points. I liked the place already. The seats were a little too ‘economy class’ for my liking though – I practically had a mouthful of my own knees, so I dread to think what it was like for the 6 foot 7 guy next to me. I glanced around. Things looked pretty normal. Enthusiastic congregation of various ages and races – check. Vibrant music team, comprising of at least one woman with a Darlene Zschech outfit and matching haircut – check. Involving the ‘yoof’ in something minor enough that it doesn’t matter if they bugger it up (in this case, auxiliary percussion) – check. Drummer who does not possess the ability to play in a six-eight time signature – check. (Or a four-four time signature for that matter. Someone get that guy off the cross-beat before I go insane).

About halfway through the first song, a man rushed from the back of the room, pushing urgently past some bopping punters, clutching a giant bouquet of flowers above his head for fear of them being crushed in the throng. Dashing towards a table at the front of the room, he placed the flowers carefully in an awaiting vase, stood back to view his handiwork, and relaxed his shoulders in relief. I couldn’t help laughing. Double points for effort, flower guy! He obviously took his arm of the ministry very seriously. You could almost sense him hoping that he wouldn’t be marked down for tardiness. Who knows, a giant, gaudy bunch of flowers could be the difference between salvation or otherwise for someone there that morning. That someone, however, was not me. Flowers, schmowers.

After standing for what I felt was a socially acceptable length of time, I hunched back into my seat and locked myself in the shampoo position to read the newsletter. It was your usual border-art-ridden affair, but something in particular caught my eye. On the back page was the usual hall of fame that you find on the back of most church newsletters – a regular ‘who’s who’ of the congregation. Right there, listed as one of the church’s elders, was none other than – you guessed it – Mr Doug Brown.

My eyes widened. I looked up to the front row of the church, where the leadership always sit. There he was, looking smug. I flipped to the front page of the newsletter. And there, in black and white: “speaking today: Mr Doug Brown”.

I could not get out of there fast enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What is WITH this guy?! I just can’t seem to shake him! I’m starting to wonder if I’m being punished for some unforgivable sin. Hell = me, in a car full of rattles and wasps, being preached at by Doug Brown. Forever. I feel like grabbing the people who have been inviting this guy to preach, shaking them and saying, “What are you DOING? Have you even HEARD this guy?”

Argh. I don’t think I can continue with my experiment. It’s really getting me down. Not just because the church community seems to have been taken over by Mr Unctuous, either. I just can’t take any of them seriously any more. I darken the door of a church, and suddenly the most cynical, negative parts of me take it as their signal to come out and play. I find myself either thinking or saying rude things to perfectly nice people. I can’t help analysing everything around me. Every service is like my own private Groundhog Day. And I don’t think it’s hurting my relationship with God, but I doubt it’s doing it any favours either.

I give up.

Resolutions

Here’s a New Year’s resolution update for you – frankly, I’m blown away. I don’t know if it’s good fortune, hard work or coincidence, but either way I’ve achieved both my goals in a spectacular fashion. I wanted to lose five kilos – I’ve lost six. I also resolved to ask if I could do some work experience in an area I’ve wanted to work in for years. Seriously, years. Well, damned if they didn’t offer me a job! I’m still struggling to believe it. I knew that asking to do work experience was something within my control, something achievable. I never would have thought that a few months on, I’d be getting paid to do it. But I am! So far, I totally love it.

Something that came as a bit of a shock to the system was actually having to use my brain in a job. I hope this doesn’t sound condescending to all the servo chicks and admin assistants out there, but I’m not sure that I’ve ever had to do that. It’s quite exhausting having to maintain interest, intelligence and concentration for eight hours a day, five days in a row. I reckon I’ll cope though. At last I’m working in the sort of job I can see myself staying in. I honestly thought the day would never come.

This New Years Eve, I might resolve to become a gajillionaire.