Pope Johnny Paul Billy Bob Fred, Jr.

Author's note: If you cannot tolerate a little religious irreverence offered in good fun, STOP right here and wait for the next post.

I am a bit of a collector of religious icons, art and jewelry - particularly crosses and angels and lions laying down with lambs.

Despite the fact that (as a mouthy reformationist in just about any setting - except healthcare as it is currently being rolled out by the U.S. House & Senate), I was probably burned at the stake in a previous life, I've always found the pageantry and ritual of the Catholic Church fascinating . . . as well as very soothing and comforting. I've long suspected that there's a Catholic hiding in one of the missing branches of the Johnson family tree.

Maybe it was a lapsed nun.

I digress. A few months ago, while browsing at Books-A-Million, I found an unusual "stretchy" bracelet . . . consisting of tiny/colorful portraits of Jesus and the Virgin Mary interspersed with magnetic hematite. Several years ago, I broke my left wrist and now suffer from arthritis (especially when it's been as cold as it has been lately). I've discovered that magnetic bracelets can be helpful in alleviating the chronic/dull ache (it's a completely personal observation not meant to be a medical recommendation).

The bookstore had ten or twelve of the "Jesus bracelets" on sale (always key words) and I bought them all. I had thought about giving some of them away as Christmas gifts, but I wound up keeping/hoarding them all.

The bracelet really is quite magical in its properties. Of course, I like to think it's really Jesus soothing my ache as opposed to the magnets;)

Lots of people comment on it . . . ask me where I got it . . . and if it works.

But yesterday, the weekend nurses were giving me no end of crap about my "Jesus bracelet". During the banter, I revealed that one of my lifelong dreams is to lay on the floor of the Sistine Chapel . . . alone . . . and stare up at the ceiling.

Just me and Michelangelo and God.

One of the Nightingales laughingly scoffed/opined, "Oh come on, Dr. Johnson! You're a Baptist. And a lapsed one at that. Thousands of people walk through that place every day. You know you don't have a snowball's chance of being able to do that!?!"

I shot back, "I dunno. I'm not in a hurry. And maybe the next Pope will be an American . . . from the South . . . maybe Atlanta . . . or New Orleans . . . somebody who drinks sweet iced tea with his meals, and knows that the very best communion wine comes from scuppernong or muscadine grapes. We'll have a common frame-of-reference and I'll be able to negotiate a deal . . .

. . . maybe I could fly in some ice for his tea."

With no ill will whatsoever intended towards the current Holy Father (may he live a long and productive life), much laughter and hilarity ensued as we then came up with names for the next American-By-Birth-Southern-By-The-Grace-Of-God Bishop of Rome.

We settled on Pope Johnny Paul Billy Bob Fred, Junior.

Then my wrist started hurting.

Jesus was not amused;)