There are a lot of good reasons to not like church (and to like it), but one of the most sensible is that it’s unnecessary, that an omnipresent God doesn’t need a designated building for recognition, and certainly not to bestow gifts. If God is everywhere, then anywhere is church.

I happen to like church, but I’m sympathetic to the everywhere-can-be-sacred argument, not least because when I am driving in Southern California with the windows down, I am so happy that the act is sublime. It is worship, it is glory, it is a blast. There’s a lot of factors: how it’s both inside and outside; how driving can be so fast and exhilarating; how you’re hurtling through public space in your own private bubble. Then there’s the breeze, and the sunshine.

I slide in my seat, stick the key in the ignition, click the seatbelt, and my hand automatically goes to roll down the windows. It’s like the way you kick off your shoes the second you walk in the door, or hit the lightswitch without thinking when you walk in a room. Southern California almost always has perfect driving-with-the-windows-down weather. It’s sunny, it’s bright, it seldom rains, and there are hills and valleys chock full of palm trees everywhere. It is hard to describe the sheer amount of sunshine here, and the way it douses everything. My morning commute is like a gorgeous landscape scene in a movie (if I ignore the graffiti). The drives to Target, to the grocery store, to the library are stunning. The coastal drive down Interstate 5 to San Diego? Forget it.

Driving quietly is enough, but I like rock music a lot, and that makes the whole experience a thrill, and even more like a movie. I had an Aerosmith Day recently, when I was so well rested that I woke up ready to kick unbelievable amounts of ass, and clearly the sun was too. It was a mood that only Pink at full volume and my moronic enormous Nicole Richie sunglasses could make better.

I am certain that my 1994 filthy black Volvo 940 is in no way cool, and that a driver who’s a short-haired nerdy girl head-banging to, say, Led Zeppelin, doesn’t make it any better. But when Night Flight is on and I’m at one of those impossibly long California red lights, I am convinced as a stubborn drunk that everyone around me thinks I’m awesome. Like, as awesome as Steven Tyler, Nicole Richie and Robert Plant rolled into one.

If that isn’t a gift from above, I’m not sure what is.

One Response to “Steven Tyler called shotgun”

1. This Ordinary Day » Natalie goes Pollyanna all over Floyd’s ass Says:
   February 10th, 2009 at 12:01 am

   [...] my last post, I talked about the joys of driving in Southern California with the windows low and the rock music [...]

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