First, good to see you at church. Peace be with you even though we’re not Catholic, and thanks for complimenting me on my singing during the “meet your neighbor” time. You seem like a lovely person, and I am not just saying that because I’m about to get into a touchy subject.
(You know, how in the great state of Texas, we say “bless her heart,” to dampen the vicious blow that’s about to come next? “Bless her heart, the only thing more wiggly than her thighs is that grated carrot and Jell-o salad she thinks we want to see at the potluck.” This is not like that, you really did seem lovely.)
It’s about your outfit, honey. I am all for Sunday casual. Heavens, our minister wears flip-flops. I believe God created cleavage on the 6th day, and said it was good. I know that all the kids are wearing those low-rise jeans, and I applaud that. Conservation of natural resources and all. The 4-inch zipper takes up less of our non-renewable metal resources. Good for you! Go Green!
But here’s the thing. When you lean over to bow your head in prayer, the whole row behind you can see your random Chinese tattoo and about 3 inches of your ass crack. And this is not conducive to holy thoughts. It’s conducive to my 11-year-old saying “what do you think her tattoo says?” And my 9-year-old saying “I see her butt!” And my inner monologue saying “WTF!”
Which does not stand for “wholly thankful fellowship.”
I’m not suggesting a burka. Jesus loves you no matter what you wear. But maybe a longer shirt? Maybe a sweater tied around your waist? Maybe even, and this is a radical thought, a different pair of pants?
Aware of All Your Blessings Now
And now, a bonus haiku just for you-know-who-you-are.
I judged not your low-rise jeans
Then, you bowed in prayer
Oh! Holy ass-crack, Batman!