“Isn’t it ironic? Don’t ya’ think?’
Alanis Morisette
Forget for a second the fact that Alanis had a rather loose hold on the definition of the word “Irony” when she penned the lyrics to her 1996 song “Ironic,” because life is, indeed, ironic.
For the regular readers of my site (Hello, you three), I have been rather silent of late. I don’t think I’ve written anything on here in the past two months. There’s irony in the fact that the section of my website billed as Wrestling With Myself has been devoid of content when I’ve been doing the most Wrestling With Myself that I’ve done perhaps ever. So yeah, that.
But greater perhaps than that irony is the fact that I’m now working for the Catholics.
The long and winding road that led me to be the copywriter for the Missionary Oblates of Mary Immaculate is alternatively hilarious and head-scratching, yet here I am, figuring out what the heck the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus is and wondering why someone would donate money just to be prayed for by a guy giving a special Mass in some far-flung location.
I have long stated that once you know how to be a marketing person, you can market just about anything. In my career, I have now marketed such disparate things as electricity, health and financial benefits, surgery on children with exceptionally rare conditions, real estate, HVAC chemicals and, as our Dec. 21, Catholicism. The only common link among these things is that there are people out there who are glad they exist when they need them.
That said, me marketing Catholicism is ironic insofar as I haven’t exactly been silent about my criticisms of Christianity in general and Catholicism specifically. I added “former” in front of the title of “Christian” when I became increasingly disgusted with its exclusionary practices and its pandering to Donald F’n Trump. I allow for the fact that it could have the whole salvation thing 100% correct in its view of Jesus, but I also allow for the fact that they might be anywhere from a smidge to a shit-ton off. Faith is a wonderful thing. It just looks really ugly when it asserts its dominance at the expense of other human beings.
Me working to promote Catholicism by telling stories of the good works some of its more ardent adherents are doing around the world, yes, can be called irony. It can also be called hypocrisy. I am the same guy who said those who fill the pews of Catholic churches and who put money in their offering plates are complicit in the abuse of children at the hands of pedophile priests. I’m aware of the problem reconciling these two truths, and am working on finding a way to come to terms with it — or die trying.
The journey from there to here starts on the day Wifey Poo was diagnosed with COVID this August. Because of her diagnosis and the uncertainty whether I, too, would come down the infection (for the third time… Thankfully, I didn’t.), I was working from home when I was looped into a Zoom call in which I was told my services would no longer be required. That in and of itself is a long and complicated tale but it can be summed up by saying I had been vocal about my displeasures with the lack of integrity and ethical behavior of the company in pushing a product science said wasn’t any more effective than water until a test was rigged to give them the results they wanted. I also said it was rather difficult to be the entire strategic force behind the marketing department of a $200 million company so perhaps maybe just maybe they could hustle their hiring process for a marketing position that had been open for six months just a little bit. (A position, I might add, they know for more than a year would be coming open when the former occupant retired.)
Honestly, it was a relief to have the weight of that insanity off my shoulders. I suddenly started to sleep well again, not having to worry about dealing with the frat-boy culture and stone-aged “management” of that place. I could look at myself in the mirror and say, “Well, at least you don’t have to try to sell something that costs a lot and does a little.”
So I ramped up my side business, found some new clients, applied to places that I thought I’d fit well with, realized exactly why I hate applying to jobs so much (HR people are the devil’s spawns), and voila! I’m working for the Catholics.
I like telling stories. I love writing. This job allows me to do both — and, thus far, only that. I no longer have to pretend I care about so-called social media influencers in the HVAC industry (ugh) and make videos and write, design and send email marketing messages and take photos and make flyers and proof flyers and plan for events and deal with a boss who couldn’t find a way to sell high-quality winter coats to freezing Alaskans for a penny. And and and and.
I just have to write.
So far, in my first four days on the job (separated by a completely undeserved four-day weekend, I might add), I have written a story about a seminarian from Zambia and his work helping out in and around San Antonio, I’ve cobbled together an appeal for donations that will be sent before the aforementioned Feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus/Father’s Day and crafted a narrative about the work beyond done by my organization to support the fight against climate change. Not bad for the first few days, I’d say.
Yet the irony of working here isn’t lost on me, nor is it lost on me that I’m probably the only person since the Reformation to have worked for both the Lutherans (health and financial benefits) and the Catholics. Maybe I can be a bridge that traverses the divide and promotes religious unity.
Yes, I jest.
But of all the ironies, here’s the one I find the biggest: I now work for a person who works for a person who works for a person who works for the Pope. This means that, technically, you could consider me fourth in line to the papacy.
Yeah. That.