It had been a stretch since I'd last been to church. I remembered a certain
disingenuous tone in church. I guess it was the unquestionable nature
of what was being said. Things that I knew were right were considered
wrong without any recourse, and I was expected to blindly follow or face
eternal damnation. I stopped going to church because of inconvenience,
but stayed away because of hypocrisy.
This Sunday was different, though. The flyer jumped out from the rest
of the bulletin board clutter. It was simple, black and white. The pictures
looked straight out of Mayberry. A balding preacher with bifocals sliding
down his nose smiled at me from the top left corner, hands crossed cradling
a tattered Bible. An ornate trim rounded the corners and framed the mother,
father, and two young children singing in the bottom right. This flyer
felt real in a very corny, Nick-at-Nite sort of way.
It was genuinely compelling. One of those things that you can't ignore.
Not so much like a catchy song, but instead like falling in love at first
sight. Looking back, I can't even remember what the flyer said... but
it spoke to me.
 Maybe
it was the bold letters, which gave the impression that punctuality
was of the essence, that said, "Services start at 10:30."
It was 9:45.
I ran back to my room at the Sky Palace Motor Inn, brushed my teeth,
pushed my hair around, and put on the best clothes I could find. Unfortunately,
the best clothes I could find were a moth-ridden, grey sweater and an
olive tweed jacket that didn't even come close to matching my greasy tan
slacks.
As I ran to the church, I became very aware of what I was wearing in
relation to the neighborhood I was running through. I decided to sit in
back and keep my head down, but as I arrived I learned that would be harder
than I'd hoped.
It seemed like the entire congregation was gathered in front of the church,
chatting as they walked in, shaking hands with familiar faces. I stopped
and ran my hands through my beard in an attempt to tidy myself. As I neared
the front walkway, I felt the beads of sweat gathering on my forehead.
I pushed them back through my hair hoping it would give the impression
I had used gel. It didn't.
"Hey there. Haven't seen you before. You alright?"
Of course, the squat man that looked like he couldn't walk seven steps
without getting winded noticed I might have been having a coronary.
"Yes," I said in between gasps.
"Connor Robinson. You?" He quickly thought better of asking
me questions. "Jesus, man, you look like you're gonna keel over right
here. Let's get you inside."
I took a deep breath and bent over. I waved him off, trying to show that
I'd be okay. But before I could say anything, he had grabbed me under
the arm, motioned for another parishioner's help, and began to carry me
into the church. The two men sat me down on a pew in the back of the sanctuary.
"Well, don't just stand there, Diedre," Connor barked at the
nearest woman. "Get the man a cup of water."
I looked down at my watch. It was 10:35. I pointed and gasped, "10:30,
sorry."
Connor laughed, "It's alright. You're just in time."
His whole body shook when he laughed, which led me to believe he was
consistently voted to play Santa for the church's food or toy drive.
The only thing that set him apart from the famous fat man was a jagged
scar running from the base of his left ear to his Adam's apple.
I suppose Santa could have grown the beard to cover up such a deliberate
deformity, but wouldn't that take the purity out of the fantasy?
By the time Deidre returned, Connor needed the cup of water more than
I did. He had flagged down the entire congregation as they entered the
church and told them about me feeling guilty for being five minutes late
and nearly killing myself to get to church on time.
"This guy's more dedicated than any of us, and he's
never even been here before," Connor made himself laugh so hard
he began to choke.
A young man stepped through the crowd Connor had gathered and broke up
the excitement.
"Reverend Phil is ready. C'mon Connor, you'll have
time to chat after the sermon." His attention quickly focused on
me. "The center of attention, and it's only your first day.
Impressive."
With that, he turned and escorted Connor to a pew halfway to the altar.
As the young man pointed out two seats for Connor and Deidre, I noticed
his left hand was missing at the wrist. Now that I was breathing regularly,
I began to notice the light that streamed into the church through the
immense stained glass windows that lined either side of the sanctuary.
The windows depicted many of the more gruesome events of religious history,
and gave the room an intense red hue.
The dusty, stone walls rose twenty feet before the met the ornate rafters
and joined in gothic points. My eyes made their way to the altar. Carved
cherubs and angels danced around the golden backlit crucifix. It hung,
as if by magic, in the absolute center of the wall. I closed my eyes and
tried to remember the last church I'd been in.
I could smell the dogs and cigarettes. A small wooden crucifix hung on
the cheap paneling behind the pastor as he spit and screamed and tried
his best to convince God that he was worth saving. The pastor would lean
over the music stand he used as a pulpit and declare that the world was
going to Hell. The windows were slats in the doublewide trailer and the
organ was a Casio played poorly by the pastor's ten year-old daughter.
The sound of the traditional pipe organ woke me from my reminiscence.
As the music danced, a small door opened to the right of the altar. Five
minutes passed before a tall shadow appeared at the doorway. His cane
poked through the door and his balding head followed. Just like the picture,
Reverend Phil limped to the pulpit. His tattered Bible was slapped down
and his cane discarded. A loud rasp into the microphone proved that his
throat was clear.
As the music subsided, Reverend Phil pushed his glasses up on his nose,
steadied himself, stood up as straight as he could, and declared, "Welcome
to the Holy War!" |
