At church today, a young man ahead of me in line for Communion shuffled up in expensive white sneakers, baggy white pants, and abbreviated tank top, the better to show off his extremely inflated muscles. It was muscle beach at the old parish.

 Earlier, there had been quite a handshaking of peace, with free-lancers going up and down the aisle to press flesh with any reluctant worshipers. Among them was the deacon, vigorously working the crowd as if running for office, which he should, since he’s such a nice guy, very personable.

 Father’s Day sermon had been by a tall, dark-haired, white-suited layman who talked about what Mary would have told Jesus after he was found in the Temple at age 12 instructing some white-hairs: Don’t get a big head, etc.

He got a hand when he finished, which is more than the pastor and his helpers get, but then he had done it more crisply, reading from his text, which is of course a good idea for the reverend fathers too, a good discipline.