My Opinion
Hellfire, brimstone and the winter chill in Happy Valley

I started thinking about religion the other day, when I was walking to class and my hands froze.

Not that I am blaming this on God (or, as e.e. cummings would say, god); it was my own stupid fault for not wearing gloves. By the time I reached College Avenue, my fingers were completely cold and without feeling -- sort of like 10 miniature Newt Gingriches --and I was badly out of breath from blowing on them. Soon, I was swatting my numb hands against my legs to increase their circulation. This helped a little, but it also made me resemble a nerve disorder victim, and I overheard a nearby student mutter that basket cases were running rampant on campus.

Naturally, this brought to mind Gary, the Willard Preacher. As I walked by the Willard Building, he was standing a few feet away, beatboxing and taking Run DMC requests from students.

No, just kidding. Actually, Gary was doing his usual routine; that is, blaring an unsolicited opinion about anal sex to the sparse, shivering crowd of smokers on the front steps. And that got me thinking about God.

I'm not too outspoken about religion; the last time I made my spiritual views public was after a friend got drunk and peed on the wall of a local church, and I yelled at him. (He still thinks it was funny.)

Despite that, hearing Gary preach always inspires me to become a religious activist -- specifically, the type of religious activist who throws things at Gary. For those of you who skip all your Willard-based classes and thus have never seen Gary in action, here is a personal highlight reel of my experiences with him (insert "Through The Years" melody):

-- Leaving Willard with a friend and hearing Gary point her out as "a likely prostitute" because she was wearing a skirt. He was right on the money, except that Paula was a born-again Christian and a virgin.

-- Watching a naive, young student attempt to question Gary sincerely, only to be asked whether he masturbates. Humiliated, the student stared at his shoes; when Gary approached him and repeated the question, he slunk back into the building.

-- Riding my bike down Pollock Road last year and hearing Gary yell, "Cows and pigs! Cows and pigs!" (I'd like to think a Lion Ambassador was leading a tour past Willard at that moment.)

I often hear people sharing their favorite Willard sermons with each other. And if that was all there was to it -- a bunch of bizarre, amusing stories for college kids to laugh at -- I'd have no trouble with what Gary does. If he wants to run a poor man's version of a Howard Stern broadcast, that's groovy.

But what Gary does is conducted under the pretense of his religion, and although I know I'm being a dweeb about it, that bothers me. It bothers me because away from Willard, in real life, Gary is an actual minister, and he should know better than to act as he does on campus.

Christian belief, last I read the Bible, is founded on the ideals of faith, hope and love, with love the greatest of the three. None of those are on display during a Willard sermon, possibly excepting Gary's strong affection for his red sweatshirt. I usually hear nothing but loathing and derision, neither of which are particularly effective means of religious expression. I have never met a person who was influenced by Gary's diatribes, other than to look for creative new ways to go to hell and run the ideas by him.

So I kept walking, wondering if hell would be that bad after all. Gary wouldn't be there, I reasoned, and my hands would thaw pretty quickly. Eventually, I reached Osmond Lab, where my class met. A young guy was sitting on the steps, playing guitar and singing hymns next to a big sign about Jesus.

As I passed him, I was puzzled that he could play guitar in mid-winter. I play myself (not well, but hey . . .), and the simplest chord changes become murder when my hands are cold. I stopped and asked him how his playing was holding up in the chill.

"It's not too bad today," he told me. "Sometimes it gets a little rough when it snows. Are you a Christian?"

I answered that I wasn't really, not in the sense that he was, but that I appreciated his concern. He told me to keep searching for truth, and we talked about guitar playing for a few minutes. Then it was time for my class.

"Take care," he called to me as I went inside. "God bless you!"

Waiting for my class to begin, I couldn't help but notice how kind the guy had been, and what a blessed contrast he had struck to Gary's ranting. Maybe the guy's on to something, I thought. Maybe there really is a truth we can aspire to know.

The possibility warmed my spirit, although it didn't help my fingers all that much.