Did you watch curling during this year’s Olympics? I did. I liked that Canada was righteously cleaning up, but mostly I found the sport, well, funny. Adults shouting, “Hurry! Harder! HARDER!!!” so their rock can tap—uh, hit—the button?! HAHA! Hilarious stuff, right?

OK, maybe I can be a fifteen-year-old boy at times, but, whatever—I was thoroughly amused.

I must have mentioned my new source of entertainment to my mom because two days after the Olympics ended, she forwarded me an email with the subject line: “Come curl with us!” It was an evening of amateur curling, with “us” being members of her Christian church.

“Just because I liked laughing at the sex noises doesn’t mean I want to actually play the sport!” I told her. Really, that was a lie. I did want to play. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to play with them.

Here’s the thing. I went to both Catholic elementary and high school, but I’m not religious. I’m not an Atheist, either—when it comes to labelling my religious “organization” on, say, a job application, it gets tricky. I believe in a higher power, but I also meditate along with Deepak and Oprah, read my horoscope daily and participate in Pancake Tuesday. If that all counts as a religion, then, yeah, that’s mine. I also believe in equal rights, am pro-choice,
support premarital sex and condoms being handed out in high schools as well as lots and lots of cursing, which, yes, include saying His name in vain. Soooo, I don’t think it’s a stretch to assume I don’t really fit in with traditional Christian folk.

“I don’t know,” I told my mom. “I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea…”

“Just try it. You want to play, don’t you? I know you do,” my mom said, knowing me all too well. “Just…watch your language.”  All too well, indeed.

“Oh, shit!” I said (who else would it be?) after I slipped on the ice during my first throw, dropping my broom.

I looked around to see if anyone had reacted to my “merde” moment, but it seemed that it had gone unnoticed. Or ignored.

My teammate, Sharran, a forty-something mom, glided towards me from the opposite end of the rink. She smiled. “Nice shot!” It was a terrible shot, but Sharran sounded like she really meant it. Actually, she probably did.

Throughout the tournament, I noticed that the prevailing theme of the evening wasn’t “Christians Curling” (I was only asked once if I attended church) but, rather, good old-fashioned positivity. We encouraged each other, cheered each other on (even those on the opposing team) and we all shook hands at the end of our games with these warm, firm, we’re-really-connecting-here handshakes. Everyone was friendly and welcoming, and it was all very nice/lovely/wonderful. And strange.

It was strange because, for the first time in a long time, I was in a snark-free environment.  I mean, I didn’t even snicker when I heard “Hurry! Harder! HARDER!” And it wasn’t because I didn’t want to offend anyone; it was because I was riding the high of kindness, and instead of looking for the joke of the situation, I was looking for the joy.

This realization had nothing to do with religion. It had nothing to do with how or who I worship, but how and with whom I spend my time.

No doubt I am the product of my “live-tweeting errythang” generation that promotes snarky as the new nice. Everyone wants to be funny and memorable on their Twitter/Facebook/Instagram, and, let’s face it, nasty is notable. It’s relatable and catchy. But, snark is also lazy. It’s way easier to laugh and point at someone who’s fallen rather than to give a hand and tell her, “Nice shot!”

Of course, I can’t be certain if the giving and welcoming nature of these curlers was because of their religious status, but, let’s face it: wondering WWJD on a regular basis probably had something to do with it.

By the end of the night, I was, by no means, suddenly going to convert and return to my religious roots. We wouldn’t ever be able to agree on subjects such as gay marriage and abortion. But we could agree that being kind to one another is a universal creed we should all try to subscribe to.

(Oh, by the way: my team lost horribly that night, but I would definitely try curling again. I may still snicker at “Hurry! Harder! HARDER!” But, I may not.)