If I were more mature, I'd no longer be cheesed off by that snarky comment. I'm not more mature. Even worse, experiences since then have made me fairly triumphalistic about the catechetical value of home décor. Yesterday's encounter with the plumber is a fine example.
After writing out an invoice for my latest skirmish with the garbage disposal, the plumber handed it to me and said, "I notice you have a lot of religious stuff around here." Yes, I do.
I practice what I write, so my home is filled with religious artifacts I've collected and received as gifts. My home is painted in colors that prompted one visitor to exclaim, "Wow, this is like walking into a Byzantine icon." There's lots more -- arranged in what I hope is a tasteful and visually pleasing way.
Well, turns out the plumber had been raised Catholic, educated in Catholic schools, did the altar boy thing, no longer goes to church, and recounted it all with exasperated affection. I listened, laughed in the right places, mentioned how I view church as being much more than a building. The plumber told me about his sense of Christ's presence. And so forth and so on for twenty minutes that, thank God, were not added to the invoice.
Over the years, I've had similar conversations with guys who have trooped through The Hermitage to clean lint out of my dryer vent; inspect my damp basement; deliver a washing machine; figure out why certain electrical outlets weren't working. I never start these conversations about faith and religion; my décor does.
