In the first year of his presidency, Ronald Reagan spent countless hours trying to persuade congressmen to approve a crucial sale of military planes to Saudi Arabia.  By all accounts, it was a grueling effort that a took a personal toll, so when Congress voted (by a narrow margin) to approve the deal, Reagan turned to an aide and said “I feel like I’ve just crapped a pineapple.”

That’s pretty much describes my feelings all year with this blog.  And just like anything you might expel from your bowels (pineapples or otherwise) I’m not sure if I’m proud of the results so much as glad that the year is over.

To recap: 365 days ago I vowed to become a Better Man by today.  In my first post, I wrote about waking up Christmas morning to find the tires on my car slashed.  It was the final insult in a year’s worth of indignities, and the parallels weren’t lost on me: my easy ride on the wheels of good fortune had been suddenly deflated by the ugly vicissitudes of life.

And so this blog was born, a chronicle of my efforts not only to reverse my fortunes, but to change for the better – to find the wisdom and fortitude to overcome my crises. I’d resolved to do this by taking on several laudable, hare-brained and occasionally dangerous projects, all designed to improve the quality of my character.    In the process,  I learned a few lessons:

LESSON #1: It’s Okay To Make Wildly Unrealistic Plans That You Fail to Achieve.

When Joseph Stalin ruled the Soviet Union, he laid out several Five Year Plans that came with virtually impossible economic targets the workers had to achieve.  We’re talking crazy goals, like wheat production that required more farmland than physically existed in the entire country.  When the workers failed to achieve their targets, Stalin made sure heads rolled…literally. That’s too bad, because in spite of the “failure” the Soviet Union still achieved phenomenal economic growth, outpacing even some capitalist countries.  Cranky, homicidal Joe was so focussed on what didn’t happen that he couldn’t see the progress his country had made.

In my Better Man-ifesto, I came up with nine very ambitious projects, ones with high numbers for both artistic merit and technical difficulty.  I did not stick the landing on most of them.  Project “Do Me a Solid” was all about volunteering, yet the most  I ever volunteered for was seconds at dinner. The God Project was another disaster – although I must admit my heart wasn’t in it. Having grown up going to church, suddenly going back felt a little like going to the fridge for the milk, finding it had gone stale, then putting it back thinking if I return later it might be good again.  In all, I failed to complete ANY of the projects in their entirety,  including the seemingly easy goal of being a Better Asshole (Project Ari Gold).

Now, it’d be easy to pull a Stalin and dwell my failures, but that would mean overlooking the unanticipated successes of this year.  Take Project Renaissance Man (self-reliance and technical aptitude) – I didn’t pick up ANY of the skills I’d set out to learning.  However,  I’ve since compensated for it by discovering my inner Boy Scout – for example, I may not know how to fix my motorcycle, but now wherever I ride I carry a space blanket, canteen, and a survival knife in my saddle bags.  That way if I break down on the highway, at least I won’t die of exposure, dehydration, or bear attacks.  In fact, my house is now littered with how-to guides, and wherever I go I carry tools for most crises, even if I don’t know how to use them.

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Perhaps it’s been the downturn in my fortunes, but lately I‘ve grown fond of planning my own funeral. While some people daydream about spending the vast sums they win in the lottery, or coming home to find Megan Fox vacuuming the rug in the nude, my thoughts linger on that ultimate Going Away Party (I go away, everyone parties). I know it sounds a tad morose, but before anyone starts planning an intervention, please know that I don’t feel suicidal (yet).  In fact,  I’m not really preoccupied with the exact circumstances of my death, although I’d pick a fiery motorcycle crash à la Thelma and Louise if I was certain it could be painless.

Part of my morbid  fascination has to do with that wish every child has when they think they’re in trouble –  to gain the moral high ground by dying (because THEN you’ll be sorry).  Mostly though, I’ve been planning my own funeral because funerals usually suck.

I’m certain I’m not the only one who feels this way. With the exception of funeral directors, no one is jonesing to go to a funeral; there’s no need for a bouncer and velvet rope at funeral parlours, and Owen Wilson will not make a movie called The Funeral Crashers.  Why the antipathy? Well,  there’s that whole “confronting your own mortality” thing, but anyone who’s seen the end of the human safari knows the real reason: funerals are hastily organized affairs done on the cheap – cheap stationery, cheap egg salad sandwiches cut in fours (because that looks fancy), and worst of all…cheap sentiments.

It’s not like we don’t know it’s coming. I suppose most of us don’t give a shit about our own funerals because it’s unlikely we’ll be attending them.   Instead, we’re struck down by an aneurysm, or a drive-by shooting,  and then it’s a mad sprint for our loved ones to get us in the ground before we start smelling like a diabetic hobo on a hot day.  The result is there’s little time to think about how we should truly be remembered. A Better Man would not stand for such a flaccid end to his life.  A Better Man would have a hand in choreographing that moment when the handful of people still alive and willing to admit they knew him come together and celebrate his meagre contribution to humanity.

Like most people, I want the turd polished – a big reason funerals exist is to salvage dignity from a life where none may have existed.  As Bette Davis pointed out, one should always speak good of the dead, even if the dead were assholes in life, and so it should be with my shuffling of this mortal coil.  Of course, a resplendent funeral where the guest of (dis)honour gets big ups is promised to no one. The only way you can ensure that people leave the church/funeral home/Hooters with an image of you that you yourself helped shape is to be very vocal about what you want at your funeral while you’re still living.  Thanks to my current fixation,  I believe I have it down when it comes to planning my viking send-off.

First off, I don’t want a viking send-off – I’m sure the boat will cost too much, plus nothing kills a funereal mood quite like having firefighters on stand-by to put out your funeral pyre once the thing is over.  In fact, anything grandiose is pretty much a non-starter, because no one will want honour it (unless you paid for it in advance).  So unless you’re Hunter S. Thompson,  forget about having your remains shot out of a cannon.

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Clint Eastwood was recently featured in an issue of GQ magazine (voted “Badass of the Year”) wherein he confessed to meditating daily.   He says it gives him a sense of self-reliance.   I would argue he feels that way by virtue of being CLINT! FUCKING! EASTWOOD! but if he believes meditation has made him a better man, then perhaps it will make me one as well.  So there you go – thousands of years of Eastern philosophy, million of practitioners, a rich religious tradition, and I decide to meditate only because Dirty Harry does it too.

That is how I find myself sitting crossed-legged on the floor of a long room with yellowed windows on one side and threadbare tapestries covering chipped concrete walls on the other.  It smells vaguely of aromatherapy oils and sweat socks.   The man next to me is whistling through his nose so loudly he sounds like a boiling kettle. When a friend recommended this “Buddhist temple” to me, I suppose I imagined something a little, well, grander.   This place has all the meditative ambiance of a visiting room in a maximum security prison.   Were Buddha here, he would tell me that I’m suffering over my environment because I have expectations as to what it should look like.   I’ve lost before I’ve even begun.  Even amongst Buddhists, I’m a loser.

There are nine other people in the room besides Whistler and myself, and all of them look like aging hippies.   I’m reminded of that cliché about cops and doughnut shops - it wouldn’t be a cliché if it weren’t also true.  About the only possible exception is the woman who will be leading the meditation. She has the ironically un-Zen look of Kathy Bates in the movie Misery. Her manner, on the other hand, is all Wilford Brimley in Cocoon, jocular and grandmotherly.   When I tell her it’s my first time, she says “Well, I’ll be gentle, then” and winks.  I guess Buddhists flirt like everybody else.

Kathy waddles to the front of the class and explains that since there is “a newcomer among us” (winks at me again) we’ll be starting with a simple breathing meditation.   Kath instructs us to sit cross-legged with our back straight, our hands resting in our lap, one on top of the other.    “Still your mind on the act of breathing,” she says. “Forget all other thoughts and feelings.”    See, I knew this was too easy – thoughts in my head are racing like cars in the Paris-Dakar rally.  I’ll be thinking about my lack of fulfilling job when it’s outpaced by worries over my precarious money situation, which is soon lapped by angst over my growing deficit of dignity.

I put up my hand.  Ms. Bates seems mildly amused “I’m not exactly thinking less. Actually, all I’m doing is thinking. Is that common?”  I ask.    “Oh yes” she replies with a oddly wicked smirk. “Neurotics often feel that way at first.”   I realize Kathy has seen my kind before – slightly manic, over-analytical types who take a paradoxical glee in sifting through the detritus of their life.   She continues in the soothing but stern tones of a cop about to Taser an unruly perp.  “Your mind isn’t busier.  You’re just more conscious of how busy your mind actually is.”  Kathy tells me to resist the urge to follow all those thoughts. If you discover that your mind has wandered, return it to the breath.  “Just keep doing it.  You’ll get it…eventually.”

Okay – stick to the breathing.  I can do this, I say.  Still, thoughts are tempting

me like Rachel Weisz in a bikini with a six-pack offering a back rub.  I will not be seduced, I tell myself.   “What about the issue with the bank?” Rachel asks. “Piss off, Rachel, I’m meditating,” I reply.   “Yes, but don’t you feel desperately lonely and abandoned by your friends?” she coos.  “Do you mind, Rachel? I’m focused on my breathing over here, and I have no time for self-pity.”   I stay riveted on my flaring nostrils.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  In. Out.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity fending off their suggestive advances and remaining fixated on that mundane repetitiveness which keeps me alive, my thoughts start to become increasingly less distracting.  In terms of of their ability to command my attention, they seem less like my favorite actress considering a lap dance and more like yapping purse dogs – pesky but not unmanageable. Eventually, even the yapping diminishes. I don’t know at what point it happens, but I’m subconsciously aware of my mind being empty.  This is it.  I’m thinking…of nothing.  This meditation thing? I may have it nailed.  I have drilled deep into the core of my being, through the hard sediment of my skepticism and struck a vast reservoir of inner peace that is gushing all over my field of despair. And then, I’m nudged.  Whistler hisses in my ear, obviously annoyed.   “You were snoring,” he says.   “Have some consideration.  Some of us are trying to meditate.”

I apologize and quietly excuse myself.   Apparently, keeping a straight back is very important in that it keeps you from getting too relaxed and falling asleep, something for which I have a legendary reputation.  Many major milestones on my human safari have been undone by my championship capacity for napping anywhere and at anytime; my first driving exam,  my first carnal experience with a woman and now my first attempt at meditation.

However, I don’t consider this a failure. For the first time in the last few months I have had a moment where I contemplated nothing.  I get that occasionally, usually when I’m on my motorcycle, but even on my bike I’m thinking about how glad I am to be on my bike.   This was a complete absence of anything, and it was a relief,  like a burden had  been lifted, albeit temporarily.  I see what Dirty Harry is getting at, and I feel like one lucky punk.

I can’t say I found God during meditation.  What I discovered instead was some actual peace, a place within myself to get away from myself.   As I walk out onto the street, things look a little sharper, colors seem a little deeper. I know I’ll be coming back here again, regardless of the odor.  Next time, I’ll make sure to have a full night’s sleep.  I just hope Whistler’s happy to see me.

It’s 10:30 Sunday morning and I’m already late for church.  I’m not too worried, though…the church I’m heading to  will tolerate my tardiness.  In fact, it will tolerate pretty much anything.

Now, I should explain that amongst my many projects this year was the GOD PROJECT,  where I said I’d  make it to a church service as many Sundays as I could (not EVERY Sunday, as some of you mistakenly believed…Curt).  Last Sunday, I thought I’d go long and try out the Jehovah’s Witnesses, a faith I have no connection to whatsoever and whose beliefs I find highly dubious.  That was a bad play; I fled the scene – I guess after years of NOT attending church I found it paralyzingly daunting to sit down with people whose views are so antithetical to my own.

So in order to build up my tolerance, I decided to go for short yardage with a church that’s not unlike myself; liberal, open-minded, not overly concerned with trivial religious matters, like sin. That may sound more like Sunday brunch with your hung-over friends than Mass…but then, you haven’t been to Westhill United Church.

I chose it because the folks at Westhill have a reputation for tolerance. They describe themselves as a progressive spiritual community growing out of the Christian tradition. If you creep their website, it has a statement of faith…oops, it’s actually called “Visionworks.” They thought a statement of faith would produce “rules” that not everyone in the congregation could agree with, so they scrapped that idea.  Instead, their Visionworks contains a lot of noble, high-minded ideas, such as “diversity,” “inclusion,” “social justice”,  and “environmental stewardship”. After about the 17^th paragraph of this I feel like I’m back in university skimming my Utne Reader and pretending I care.  Long story short, everyone and everything is welcome at Westhill and not just the usual suspects who used to be shunned by churches, like homosexuals -  no, I suspect if you were an alien with a taste for human flesh, you would not be turned away.    It seems like everyone is invited to the Westhill party…except, perhaps, God.  Visionworks goes on and on and ON, but there is not a single mention of the Big Guy or his Son. The Holy Trinity is pretty much exorcised from the entire site.

Now this strikes me a little like playing hockey without a puck…I guess it’s not impossible, but you have to wonder if there’s any point.  I suppose after decades of legalistic Christianity, where most people on earth have done something for which they could be stoned, they figure it’s time to get progressive — so now everything is okay in the eyes of  …. you know Who.  Westhills is the, “I’m okay, you’re okay” church and at first, I’m okay with that.  Such a tolerant, diverse-sounding church should have a righteously interesting service. As I drive over, I’m hoping for something wildly flamboyant – perhaps a cross between a Southern Baptist Revival meeting and a Gay Pride parade.

I arrive (late) and scurry into the sanctuary.  It looks like…like ….well, like a regular United Church.  Three quarters of the place is empty. Of  all the people there, I am easily one of the youngest. This place has been described by some as a “hippy” church and judging by the late-fiftysomethings in the crowd wearing floppy hats and Crocs, stewing in the knowledge of their own mortality, they may not be wrong.

I’ve come in half-way through a hymn.  I’m very familiar with the tune, since it was a popular one in the Pentecostal church in which I grew up.  However, the words here are “different” and by that I mean there is no “abundant” mention of God  and by “no abundant mention” I mean no mention of Him whatsoever.  He seems to have been evicted from His own House.  Instead there’s a lot of talk of compassion, joy, and love, abstract concepts that might apply to God, but no mention of his name. Call me old school, but I start to miss Him.

The Pastor calls for prayer requests.  People stand and announce various needs – an operation for the 90-year-old father of a congregant, well wishes for the family of a recently deceased drug addict who used to attend the church.  After each individual plea, congregants at most churches would announce in unison, “Lord hear our prayer.”  That’s what I expected, because that’s what I automatically said a couple of times (years of indoctrination) before I caught on that this WASN’T the proper response. This posse’s retort was, “may love be found” or ,“may joy be shared” both of which sound like a lyric from an R. Kelly song.

After this, there is a reading from an author I’ve never heard of on a subject that has nothing to do with faith and finally, the Pastor gives her sermon.  She talks about the recent and sudden passing of a relative and how her relative’s neighbours rallied around her family in this crisis.  She goes onto talk about the need to build the same kind of community right there in the church, as though it might slip the congregations’ mind to support a family when they lose a loved one.  Given their advanced collective age, maybe that’s wise. That’s it – the spiritual equivalent of, “eat your broccoli.” She mentions God once and Jesus once, but only tangentially, kind of the way you’d thank your agent when accepting an Oscar…you have to get it in there somewhere.

There’s nothing wrong with what she said, but I’m starting to realize I may have a double standard here; yes, I may want to be someplace that tolerates my foibles, or at the very least doesn’t frown on premarital sex.  I want a church that cares for the poor, that understands things like sexual identity and invites questions and doubts about faith, because that’s part of being human.  I love the idea of a church like that, so Westhills is tapping a vein.

At the same time I want hear more of GOD. I’m surprised to be feeling this way – I haven’t given God much thought in the past few years, so to find myself perturbed at a church that treats Him like an uncle who gets too drunk at family weddings is almost stunning. I feel like I need to stand up and FIGHT! for HIS RIGHT! to PARTY! At some point in my Westhills visit, I starting craving word of rules about acceptable and unacceptable behaviour beyond the platitudes found in the Vision statement. I want this church to have a code, even if I don’t agree with it.

Something is crystallizing here: faith, to me at least, should be trusting that there are rules to live by, a guide to protect one’s piety and collectively that’s supposed to make the world a better place, in accordance with God’s plan. If  Westhills doesn’t captivate me it’s because I can’t see how you can stand for anything when you stand for everything. This church is like vanilla ice cream, nothing offensive about it and for that very reason, nothing to be super-passionate about, either.  Rocky Road – now THAT takes commitment.

That’s another thing – all the churches in which I grew up (regardless of how wrong-headed I thought their belief system was) seem filled with people passionate about their faith.  There seems to be about as much passion here as a DMV line-up (correction, people can get pretty worked-up in a DMV lineup).  This could be THE church to minister to people who’ve never lead a church-y life, or for people whose exposure to faith has been largely negative (that’s me).  But by refusing to step out on a ledge and risk offending anyone,  by writing a statement that has an opinion on just about everything except God…well, they’ve committed to nothing and defused the passion. Basically, they’ve kept all the stuff that’s boring about church and discarded the things that actually matter.

I stand around for a few minutes afterwards, an invitation for anyone to come chat with me.  Given my age I’m rather conspicuous  (plus a lone, marriageable-looking male normally gets lots of attention in a church, I find) but no one approaches.  People are talking to each other, but as far I’m concerned, there’s about as much fellowship going on here as there is on the subway. Even though I’m not sure they wouldn’t forcibly baptize me, I can’t imagine the JW’s being so ‘”whatevs” about a new kid in the Kingdom Hall.

As I stand there, it occurs to me that I did learn something about my, “I’m okay, you’re okay” church experience….I’m not okay with it. If I’m going to have faith and religion in my life, I want God (yes I said it) to help me become a better man… othewise, what’s the point?

Because I hadn’t eaten, I head out to break bread… by myself. So much for inclusion.

I’m driving down the street, and as I get closer to my destination, my chest gets increasingly tight.  My hands are so sweaty I can barely grip the wheel.  Knowing what I’m about to do fills me with deep, intense dread.

I’m not going to the dentist.  I’m not going to prison. I’m not going to talk about feelings with an ex-girlfriend who won’t sleep with me no matter what I say.

I’m going to church.

I made a promise to you that as part of the God Project, I would attend a different worship service every weekend.  To be honest, it seemed like an easy promise to fulfill.  I spent much of my early life in the Pentecostal Church and despite my current ambivalence over faith, (Mom was a cranky Christian, Dad an affable Agnostic) being in a church hasn’t been a major issue.  That’s  not to say I like going -  I actively dislike church and not because of the parochialism, or the rigid attachment to faith that occasionally precludes compassion or common sense. I…don’t like the way churches smell.  I hate the plodding tempo of all the hymns. Those home-made banners, quilted in cheerful colours. There’s always one old lady in the congregation who sings loud and off key.  In my opinion, organs belong only in funk songs. Call me shallow, but there you go.

However, that’s not why I’m so anxious.  I’ve been to plenty of churches like that and they’ve never induced the same fear.  No, it’s the church I’ve decided to attend  that scares the Bjesus of me.

The Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses.

You see, I grew up under the impression JW’s are crazy.  In hindsight,  that seems odd, since I went to a church where the believers thought that when the Holy Spirit fills them, they can speak in a language that nobody can understand – which, if God had something THAT important to tell us, seems a little impractical.  I suppose I get my antipathy towards Jehovah’s Witnesses from my mother, whose judgment of the religion was swift and unequivocal: “They are a cult.”

I had no reason to disagree. After all,  Jehovah’s Witnesses are the followers who cried wolf.  Like many Christian faiths, they believe that we are living in the end times and that Armageddon is just around the corner.  However, most faiths hedge their bets and say end times are “near.”  Not the JWs – they hung their ass out over a ledge and committed to a date — to several dates, actually.

Since 1877, the JWs have issued dire warnings about the end of the world SIXTEEN times, and so far (unless Stephen Harper and Lady Ga Ga are post-apocolyptic nightmares) we all be still here.  The  last due date was 1975, and the Watchtower Society (JWs HQ) actually commended those believers who quit their jobs, sold their homes and liquidated their assets in anticipation of the return of Christ.   The one time we should’ve been forewarned was when that terrible Michael Bay flick “Armageddon” came out, but Jehovah’s Witnesses apparently missed the call on that one, too.  The  last “serious” public announcement  on Armageddon was in 1984, by which time they’d wised up and simply said “it’s close” rather than give a specific date. I guess they realized there are only so many times you can throw your hands up in spiritual whoops and say, “My Bad.”

As a child, my only contact with the JW’s were the  friendly visits to my house again and again and again and again and again and again…to tell me about the “good word.”  They seemed polite, just persistent and misguided.  And then I discovered the real deal breaker… they DON’T. CELEBRATE. CHRISTMAS. I mean, no presents? For the rest of us greedy Christians, that’s just … nuts. From then on, I saw their efforts as senseless and futile, like the vacuum cleaner salesman joyfully trying to promote a model that is WORSE than the one you already have.

Like most religion in my life, my fear turned to apathy and over time the JWs gradually receded from my view.   I hadn’t given them any thought whatsoever, until yesterday, when I decided I would attend a service.

Given our history, I don’t know why I chose the Kingdom Hall as my first “whazzup?” with the Big Guy. Maybe it’s symbolic of me giving the whole deal another chance.  After all, you can tell a lot from a Church based on how they accept strangers into their midst.  And it wasn’t as if I  thought I would be beaten and gang-raped by Jehovah’s Witnesses.  But I’ve spent my entire life thinking they’re “different” and in the fundamentalist terms that I grew up in, “different” means “bad.”  Now I’m looking for answers — maybe it’s the Malcolm Gladwell books, but I’m applying some counter-intuitive thinking by looking in the last place I’d expect to find them.

So there I am, standing in front of the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses.  And I’m standing.  And…standing.  I stand in the cold for 20 minutes.  I have the same feeling standing outside that church that I did when I was 14, and stood on the 10 metre hightower of my local pool, debating whether or not to jump off.   I sucked it up and leaped to what could have been my death because the alternative was to be branded a coward by my “friend” Rick Fleck.  As I stand there freezing my balls off (you can say that outside the church) and not wanting to go in, I realize I have another Rick Fleck to consider…that is you, dear readers (if there are any except Curt).

This is ridiculous! I’m scared to enter a church for Chrissakes” (again, I’m outside)!

“I’ll just slip in the back pew,”  I tell myself, “no one will see me.”  I approach the double doors, dark brown and rather commanding for such a small building.  They look heavy, and not wanting to draw attention by fighting with them and possibly disrupting the service inside, I decide to use a lot of strength to open them up. Turns out, those doors are surprisingly light, because I fling them WIDE OPEN with the vigor and drama one uses to stop a wedding, or  if I were maybe the devil himself.  Before me there is a small sanctuary with about 30 people inside. EVERYONE turns to look back at the door, but I never give them a chance to see who opened it.  I’m already trucking back down to the street to my car. Running. Away from church. Usain Bolt could not have kept up.

So now I’m driving home , excpet now my chest is seizing with laughter at the thought  of me tear-assing down Dundas St. with my coattails flapping then hood jumping my car like T.J. Hooker.  But mirth quickly mutates into  shame (stuff to do with religion always ends up with shame somehow).  This failed experiment is about more than my prejudice against Jehovah’s Witnesses.  This is about my total inability to step outside my comfort zone.   Going to church, talking to people I don’t necessarily agree with, possibly getting into an argument with someone about what they believe, or I believe…these things make me feel wildly uncomfortable.  But these are exactly the things I need to do if I’m going to get better acquainted with faith. This will not be the last time I will put myself in an uncomfortable position, and my performance today is as illuminating as it is discouraging.

Still, crashing the party over at the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses has proven to be a good lesson in tactics. Henceforth, I will take the journalist’s approach to things and hide behind being a professional inquisitor.   If you call ahead, talk to someone, let them know you’re coming, it feels less daunting.  Not exactly the bravest move outside my comfort zone, I know.   But I think I’ll walk (into a church) before I run (away from another one.)

ADDENDUM: Thanks to the current and former JWs who took issue with the dates on which the Jdubs announced the end of the world.    Just because sixteen dire warnings were issued does not mean the Watchtower Society settled on sixteen different dates.   It was more like 3 or 4…allthough personally, I think claiming the end of the world ONCE and getting it wrong is enough to give one pause.