It’s September in Texas. That special time of year when everyone undergoes mass hypnosis to convince themselves that any temperature under 89 degrees Fahrenheit qualifies as autumnal, and high school football erupts across the Texas plains. Ah, Texas football. Where young warriors dream of impressing girls, coaches, girls, college scouts and girls as they smash each other into the neighboring county. If said players attend a Christian school, their coach may attempt to inspire them with Paul’s words from Ephesians 6 about the Armor of God, comparing their scarred helmets to the Helmet of Salvation and so forth. And it probably works. Mainly because high school boys can get inspired by just about anything if it mean impressing high school girls. Did I already mention that?
I however, was not on the football team in high school (nor was I in Texas, but that’s a different matter). I was a trumpet player in the marching band. And there isn’t much in the way of allegorical, metaphorical or even literal content in the Bible for a band geek to latch onto. Sure, David played the harp, but he was really more a singer-songwriter type (see Psalms 1 – 150) than an ensemble player. Besides, have you ever seen a harp in a marching band? (Please say yes because that would be awesome.) But there are no references to the Spit Valve of the Spirit or allusions to Christ’s word being as melodious as a bass clarinet and sharp as an ill-tuned oboe.
At least not until now.
I present to you to Whole Band Uniform of, well, I can’t really say “of the Lord” as I’m fairly certain Christ would have the good taste to avoid wearing anything remotely resembling the garb of goose-stepping tubists. There’s a reason you read about Jesus coming in clouds of glory, enrobed in blazing robes of enrobement. And not, say, an ill-fitting simulacrum of a Tower Guard’s dress reds. But I digress.
The following spiritualish sartorial metaphors are based on my personal experiences in the Blue Springs High School Golden Regiment marching band, 1987 – 1990. We literally looked like the cavalry was coming. If the cavalry was actually an infantry and had its gold-and-purple uniforms designed by a Civil War-era forefather of Liberace.
The Plastic Cavalry Hat of Pontiff-ication – The corporeal: Some bands wore British-style Q-Tip® hats. A few with Shriner sponsorship sported fezzes. We donned the gleaming, white, injection-molded manifestation of General Custer’s once arrow-free chapeau. The spiritual: As evangelicals, we eschew the idea of a pope. But who else in Christendom rocks a mitre harder? Besides, no one gets their knickers in a knacker over a “hail Mary” pass in football.
The Ascot of the Angels – The corporeal: Two hundred ascot-clad brass, woodwind and percussion players still couldn’t pull off a look perfected by a cartoon character – Fred from “Scooby Doo.” The spiritual: The silken ascot recalls the gossamer construction of the wings angels probably don’t really have. And reminds the laity that God made man a little lower than the angels and, as such, we need bibs while eating barbecue.
The Poplin Shirt of Prayer Circles – The corporeal: Slick, shimmery and shiny enough to reflect Reagan-era SDI satellite-based lasers, our cool-to-the-touch upper-torso attire actually had the breathability of a plastic bag trapped inside a plastic bag. The spiritual: Its location on our body reminds us of the Breastplate of Righteousness, and that said righteousness requires prayer to achieve. Its choice of material reminds us of our grandmothers, who gather to prayer in groups while eating Fig Newtons.
The Cummerbund of Communion – The corporeal: The cummerbund (or cumberbund to Middle-Americans) is a pleated sash worn about the waste and affixed in place with the weakest form of generic Velcro ever exported from the Guangdong province. It looked like a homemade boxing championship belt, but did little to support one’s pants. The spiritual: With its multiple levels of pleating, the cummerbund is the perfect place to store communion wafers, thus constantly reminding us of Christ’s sacrifice. Diabetic may also tuck in a few glucose tablets without being considered sacrilegious.
The Adjustable Trousers of Steadfastness – The corporeal: These purple polyester (of course) pants came with adjustable waistbands, allowing them to fit the most waifish piccolo player (not me) and burly sousaphonist alike. Also, itchy. The spiritual: As Paul said in so many words, our lives are a marathon and not a sprint. We must remain strong and steady throughout our journey. When weariness creeps in, we must lean upon these Trousers of Steadfastness which, after being handed down for 15 years with minimal laundering, can pretty much walk on their own.
The Patent Leatherette Shoes of Sacrifice – The corporeal: It wasn’t enough to have black shoes. They had to be Official Band Shoes manufactured according to strict codes established by the Soviet Politburo after a particularly bad evening of oppressing the proletariat. They hurt. Badly. The spiritual: Walk a mile or five in another man’s band shoes and you’ll have lost all feeling below the knee after 500 yards. But you keep going, you keep struggling, you keep sacrificing. Because if you don’t, the trombone section will trample you like a sweaty-yet-golden grape of wrath. Truth.
After three years sporting the Purple & Gold at halftime shows, contests and even the Fiesta Bowl parade (before the Fiesta Bowl actually meant anything to anyone), I can truthfully say that the uniform did indeed bring me closer to God. I thank Him every day that I will never, ever have to wear it again.
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