The Church of the Right Angles (Faith in Reverse Part 2)

A Faith in Reverse Story (Part 2)

Your response to Faith in Reverse was truly unexpected. Thank you so much. I’m continuing the series, and though I’m not yet to the primary question—Why Catholic?—we’re getting there. I promise. For now, enjoy a peek into my twenties. And if you haven’t read Faith in Reverse, Part 1, follow this link.

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I still see my twenty-year-old self in absurdist angles, as if in a Picasso painting where the subjects have many faces. The right side of my face stares from that painting, full on. The right eye’s gaze is fixed somewhere just over the horizon, always looking for some kind of promise. The right corner of the mouth is curled in a smile—or is it a smirk? Brow unfurrowed, unworried, and in that angle I have the appearance what? Naivety? Conman?

This angle—the right angle—was a company man. I said the things I was supposed to say, particularly because I was employed by a a very large church that loved its right angles. Those angles: read the scriptures; pray; follow the leader; don’t Rock’n Roll or sex or or drink or chew (or go with girls who do); for God’s sake do not go Democratting about; don’t critique our system; don’t speak truth to power. Some signed contracts memorializing the angles. I signed mine with my right hand and not because I’m mendacious. I’m just right-handed.

The right side of my face fit in with the many other right-sided faces in the Sunday-morning service. Together, we were the First Church of the Right Angles, and we let each other know just how right we were. My first Sunday at the COBRA was in July—I have more July 4th church memories than Easter memories—and a group of right-sided men wearing the right half of their military uniforms walked down the center aisle carrying flags. First came the American flag, then the Christian one, then all the flags of the military—Army, Navy, Marine, Air Force, Coast Guard. Some of the men in the procession carried ceremonial rifles over their right shoulders, which was a sort of emblem of right-angle belief.