Living without McConsequence

Before we learn to lie, truth radiates from our tiny beings. We are shamelessly doing us—even when it's to our own detriment.

When I was young, I spent a few weeks as a devout Christian.

Every Sunday without fail, I went to Knox Presbyterian with my Aunt Mary and Uncle Bruce. My parents had long-opted out of the religion, preferring a life of satellite TV and sin. Going to church without them meant experiencing a world outside of my parent’s bubble.

I had also witnessed the wholesome superiority that someone who’s spent the afternoon with The Lord brings into the room.

I wanted some of that sweet nectar. 

Once a week, I’d get to wear something puffy and get picked up in the back of a Pontiac Trans Sport van—a vehicle that’s not just aged well, but turned into an enviable hipster collectible.

At church, we’d sing gothic hymns that scared me. There were visuals of blood and bone, spirit and death. It was all father and son with nary a shoutout for mother and daughter. While I found most of the hymns to be duds, there was one that really spoke to me: Amazing Grace. 

While Amazing Grace carried the weight of a greatest hit, it wasn’t on the regular set-list. Each Sunday, it was like going to a Counting Crows concert where they didn’t play Mr. Jones. Or like seeing Elle King at a Gay Pride event where she’s donning all-latex and clutching a parasol, but opts out of Ex’s & Oh’s.

Playing tertiary jams when you’ve got an Amazing Grace makes a fool out of you and me.

Regardless of the church’s failure to recognize their role as a one-hit wonder, I continued to show up on Sundays. I even volunteered to read passages in front of the congregation, memorizing words that I didn’t understand and adopting the contemplative pauses that gospel demands. 

Despite my best efforts, my heart wasn’t in it. Even as three-feet tall, relatively new transplant to earth, I just couldn’t get past the churchy spectacle of close-eyed singing, talks of death, and high-octane smiling. 

Plus, I still used “God” as a swear word, for heaven’s sake!

Without realizing it, my indifference was starting to show.

While the Jesus part wasn’t panning out, there was one aspect of the Sunday ritual that had revealed something holy: the McDonald’s Happy Meal. 

Each week after church, we’d limit our intake of basement reception juices and tarts, and head straight for McDonald’s. Pulling the van into the parking lot, we’d swiftly unload into the pastel-tiled restaurant where the mood was lighter and the elation was palpable.

Instantly, I became intoxicated by the scent of salt and deep-fryer as I prepared for my blessing.

As a lifelong fast-food enthusiast who innately understands the unspoken code: “If that chicken can’t survive decades in an underground bunker and still come out hot n’ tangy, that’s a no from me, dog” or “If that soft-serve cone doesn't leave a chemical burn the back of my throat then I’ve got some choice words for the Mennonite churnin’ heavy cream in the back”, I innately recognized McDonald’s as the highest currency. 

This was the first time in my life that I had a direct link—a guaranteed and regular trip—to the Golden Arch.

So, as long as there was a Happy Meal at the end of the tunnel, I was willing to go through the literal song and dance to get it—even if we never sang Amazing Grace again. 

Note: My means to an end relationship with the church coincided with the final years of McPizza (RIP, you were too good for this cruel, cruel world). Those lucky enough to have lived through the golden era of fast food will recall that the personal pies were faithfully delivered by a smiling McStaff member Right. To. The. Goddamn. Table.

The best part: the crisp McPizzas were always perfectly timed to arrive mere *seconds* after every burger and nugget-eating peasant had gobbled their final morsels.

As a result, the entire table would have to sit in wonder, watching the lucky recipient greet their piping hot McJewel. It was the fast-food version of ordering a $20,000 bottle of Dom Pérignon in a Vegas club where a flirtatious waitress hoisted the sparklered bottle overhead for all to see. The pizza had showmanship, drama, and commanded enough respect to remind all of the patty-ed commoners that choosing a menu item that incurs a “wait tax” could be so handsomely rewarded.

McPizza was the final wonder of the fast food world.

We will now take a few moments to honour and respect all that she was.

* Queues Danny Boy *

Sadly, my enthusiasm for McDonald’s and lack thereof for Sunday service, didn’t go unnoticed. I hadn’t developed the acting chops or political know-how to feign greater enthusiasm for the Lord and less enthusiasm for the McJewelled abundance that I had artfully manifested. 

I was a victim of my own unfiltered transparency. 

One week, on the way to church my Uncle asked, “Are you only coming to Sunday Service for lunch after?”.

I paused momentarily as my mind raced.

“Lunch?” I thought. “Is that all you call this? Lunch is an egg salad sandwich. Lunch is a can of Campbell's tomato. Lunch is Kraft Dinner at best! This is the goddamn holy grail!”

Of course I wasn’t voluntarily going to that damp, dark-wooded senior’s complex to just be with The Lord. Sure, I was being spiritually lifted every Sunday, but I was meeting my maker sitting next to Ronald McDonald and that purple thing—not Mrs. Brown and Reverend Boose.

Rather than adding any colour, I replied with a defeated, “Yes.”

I had been using the church to get my daily bread and the jig was up.

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I didn’t know it at the time, but it would take years—until attending middle school in the centre of town—before reinstating a reliable supply chain of McDonald’s, my first place of worship. 

But regardless, I couldn’t have acted any differently knowing how much was on the line. As young kids, we’re led by instinct and desire. Lying, manipulating and feigning interest has not entered our world yet.

We haven’t developed enough inauthenticity to fake it, even if our deep-fried desires rely on it.

We’re living our truth, regardless of McConsequence.

Fucks given: Zero.