Ignis aurum probat; “the fire tests the gold.”

When ancient Roman blacksmiths refined gold, they would do so in a hot fire.

Thus was born!

A Latin phrase used when someone’s character is being “refined” by adversity.

It’s fitting; church services used to be completely in Latin, and though I wasn’t lucky enough to have existed at the time, I can still imagine how incredibly confusing it must have been to be a kid enduring Sunday after Sunday watching a strangely-clothed man yell at you in gibberish.

But all jokes aside, I really do have nothing against religion. Although I myself am not yet willing to throw my hat into the ring of “does he exist or not” I am still able to respect the point-of-view either side has.

“But!” you may say, “that opinion is trite as fuck and doesn’t really say anything at all.”

Yet, it is.

Because I don’t know, maybe I’m not smart enough, not decisive enough, to say:

“Fuck you! My God is the one that exists, you shit!”

I mean, yes, I went to mass every Sunday like most people here. And yes:

It was fucking boring.

But I did end up finding something beautiful in all of it.

I joined the church choir when I was 16 or so; for no real reason other than I liked music and singing and I figured it would make my Sundays happen to suck a bit less.

And oh did it ever!

But besides that, now that I was forced to pay attention (so as to know when to sing and when not to; I mean, if I just happened to belt out “JESUSSSSSSSSS” at an inappropriate moment I assume my choir membership would be revoked fairly quickly) to the parishioners, I really saw them for the first time.

The people.

The parishioners. The people who came to what I though of as a silly little gathering every Sunday, not out of some obligation, but because they wanted to.

It was something they believed in.

Fuck, it was something they loved.

And I finally realized how everyone here was tested every day. By stupid little fucks like me, who made fun of their beliefs, their lives.

And soon something odd happened.

I started to enjoy every Sunday I spent there. I started to love the people, love the service, love the moments spent in this tiny choir on a rock in the middle of the ocean.

That was the day I really learned just how fucking important respect is.

Respect is what keeps shit like the Crusades and the Spanish Inquisition from happening. Respect is something everyone deserves; no matter what the fuck you happen to think about them.

I eventually did have to quit the choir because I went the cliché drug-abuse route; but that’s a story for another time.

Still, even though I now spend my Sundays alone, I still admit to pretending that I’m there for a few moments every week. And although I don’t really feel like I deserve to be there anymore, for those few minutes I still like to pretend I do.

For a few minutes, I’m singing songs about loving your fellow man.

For a few minutes, I’m singing songs about being forgiving, compassionate, and humble.

For a a few minutes, that fucking fire gilded me into something beautiful.

Shit, for a few minutes every Sunday? Love was very, very fucking real. And the only thing I happened to be?

Just one more person;

just another simple soul who happened to deserve a bit of it.