ANOTHER SPAM SANDWICH FOR CHRIST

Perhaps this is purely metaphor. Perhaps we must take this literally--as do many who digest the words sandwiched within the floppy black leather covers of their Scofield Bibles.

Metaphorically, these words might mean anything. The objects--in this case, ionized particles flying through fiber optic tubes at the speed of light--hover before us, the subjects. Whatever rides between the two functions of this altogether rhetorical question depends upon the subjective message received, interpreted. Should the subject for any reason be impaired--by mind-changing chemicals, by mental or emotional illness, by logical misunderstanding or even by nitrates and sulfates such as found in many types of canned meat--the objective message may tend to become garbled.

Literally, however, words have one meaning. Ambiguity is therefore impossible. Although the language of Nature tends towards the uninterpretable, the language of Man is a solid thing, something to depend upon when the ambiguity of Nature becomes too much to bear.

But what about the language of God? Who interprets it? Is there an online correspondence course I can take that will enable me to interpret the Word of God?

It's Sunday morning. It could be a metaphorical Sunday morning or it could be a literal Christian Sabbath. I am sitting in the plaza of a major telecommunications corporation that may be either a metaphorical telecommunications corporation or a literal one. It is still dark outside, but darkness and the term "outside" may be ambiguous terms that could mean just about anything--though it's entirely possible it's literal, something solid. I'm pretty bummed out. Still cold, too. Of course, I really am not certain what "pretty bummed out" really means, mainly because the phrase is indeterminate and tripartate: Pretty arrives before Bummed which comes before Out. Does this mean I am beautiful, a failure and pushed out? Or is it possible that Pretty is merely a matter of surface? After all, beautiful implies depth and numinousness (or, of course, ambiguity), and if I'm literally "pretty," sitting there in the plaza of a major international telecommunications corporation at the crack of dawn, it doesn't mean I'm particularly beautiful. Since I am also "bummed," a failure, "bummed" may be an indicator of the quality of my beauty at the moment--which is, naturally, a failure. "Out" means that it shows.

Just as the sun begins to make its shy Sunday morning appearance--that could be a literal appearance or a metaphorical appearance--I notice a cheerful group of young people barreling out of a van. Signage printed on the outside of the white vehicle indicates that I am about to be greeted by the "Ironwheel Missionary Baptist Church," an entirely metaphorical group of literal Christians that tends to project a kind of group-wide insecurity in the face of ambiguity by trying to give bummed out people like me something solid. A face faces me. It is a bright, pretty face. A female face. It is dangerous downtown--that's what everybody says. But this pretty female face has come to me with a smile on it because this is a matter of faith. Confronting the "pretty bummed out" amongst us is a Christian imperative. In this case, Christ Himself appears before me in the form of a brown paper bag.

I open it. It could be a metaphor. It could be a literal pronoun refering to the last noun of the previous paragraph (and for those of you who are too dumb to be believed, that noun happens to be "bag"). But whatever the case, metaphor or literal pronoun, the brown paper bag is a sacrament. I am about to partake of the Body and Blood of Christ--which, in this case, at least once I pull open the bag's stapled lip, happens to be a Spam sandwich and a "Big K" orange drink.

"Jesus loves you," chirps the face. The face is still smiling.

"But does Jesus love Spam?" I ask.

"Sir," another man, a large and gruff spirit I immediately recognize as the supervisor of this fundamentalist youth group, interjects, "sir, I don't think they had Spam in Biblical times."

"But Christ is still alive," I argue. "The Bible says so."

"Christ is a spirit," the man tells me. "Spirits don't need food."

"Well, what about 'Food of the Gods'?" I ask. "Last time I went to Golden Corral, I told my friend, 'This is the food of the Gods!' And you know what? It was also 'All You Can Eat.' I was in Heaven. Have you ever been to Golden Corral?"

"Look," the man says. "We'd like to pray with you. Think you can handle that?"

"Sure. I don't have any problems about thanking God for stuff. At this point, mister, even Spam looks good. I'm all for Spam. Can I lead the prayer? Dear Lord," I quaver, "thank You for this Spam sandwich and this Big K Orange Drink. I was hungry and thirsty today. I think I will save the Little Debbie moonpie for lunch, so I hope You stick around for that, too, Jesus. Please protect me from the security guards at the library. I don't want to go to jail if I have to take a piss, either, so I hope you're not too embarrassed to see me holding my weiner next to a dumpster. In the Lord's name, Amen."

The pretty blonde girl blushes. Silently, the fundamentalist youth outreach group shuffles away to the next clot of people. I realize I have been difficult. Of course, I am in a difficult situation. I don't feel like being easy on other people right now. That's why I am so difficult.

This, as I have said, could be a metaphor. It could also be a literal description. Was the Spam sandwich actually the Body of Christ? If so, why was it necessary to manufacture the Body of Christ out of "pork, beef and chicken product," as it says on the can? Why did somebody think it would be reverent to scrape the skin off some dead cow's face, combine it with the ears and nostrils of a dead pig and maybe the feet of some bird and then call it The Body of Christ? And what about that Big K Orange Drink? Whose idea was it to sell "the Blood of Christ" off the shelves of K Mart? Was Jesus' blood really orange?

I'm not being facetious about any of this. When I was a child, partaking of my first Holy Communion, I remember thinking, "Man! This stuff sure doesn't taste like blood!" Actually, it was nothing more than watered down wine. It was supposed to stand for something else. The people in my Church sometimes complained loudly that the Baptists used grape juice because they were against alcohol. Some said that, historically speaking, wine was more literal as a symbol of Christ's blood (Are you following me? If not, well, try to go with me on this one, O.K.?) because people drank wine instead of water because the alcohol in wine killed bacteria. Of course, people in Biblical times didn't know that bacteria existed. Anthropoligists posit that they simply had learned from eons of experience that wine was healthier than simple muddy water.

What really plagued me about that Spam sandwich, however, is that they used pork. Jesus, after all, was a Jew, and as we all know, Jews are forbidden by Mosaic Law to eat pork. How, then, could the Body of Christ contain "pork product"? While I sincerely doubt the fundamentalist youth outreach group from Ironwheel Missionary Baptist Church had the faintest idea they were administering Holy Communion to a pretty bummed out guy at the crack of dawn of a Sunday morning, I still tend to think they should be a little more careful what they use in their ministry.

Look at me: Because I am really hungry, I am placing my lips around two cheap pieces of white bread that sandwich a huge, greasy lump of Spam. Mmmmmm. Tastes just great. No lettuce. Just a little French's Mustard.

This could be a metaphor. It could be literal. We are what we digest.