Church
Coins clink in the metal offering tray at church. Deep organ moans.
Monotonous chants from the pastor. Slow, droning replies from churchgoers: “And also to you.” Wooden pews creaking with impatient children.
High heels and patent leather dress shoes clicking down concrete hallways, echoing between concrete walls, as we run to Sunday school.
In the northwest corner of the church, past the columbarium where us kids were too scared to go alone, shuffling chairs on scratchy carpet, papers handed out, markers dumped on table.
The young, female teacher tried to get our attention to explain that Jesus died for our sins. “What does that mean?” I interrupted. I didn’t understand the transaction, the logic didn’t make sense
Plastic marker tops popped on and off, heels of shoes swinging and kicking metal chairs.
She restated her first statement, changed a few words. I too restated my question. I kept asking until she changed the subject and I grew up and changed classrooms.
Crying babies in the nursery, ten dollars an hour earned every week. Cracking confirmation wafers, glugs of red wine.
Parents clapping at high school confirmation. We did it! (?) Nobody else seemed confused by the Jesus paradox.
College
Heavy cardboard boxes hitting the ground, furniture scraping walls up the stairway. Pop music carrying down hallways. Freshmen move-in weekend.
Roommate Savannah’s giggle laugh. It was her thing. It made her six-foot, large-chested demeanor seem smaller. The mini fridge seal ‘pop’, yogurt retrieved, door slammed shut. Devout Christian
Click of the dorm room wall phone, calling Craig, Nate, or Jason to see if they’d go to breakfast, lunch, or dinner with me.
I continued my Jesus questions to Savannah. Her eyes lit up and she recited Bible verses, telling me what to believe, treating me like a wounded kitten she could take care of. It only took a few months before I cleansed myself of the questions and moved on.
Knocking on the guys’ dorm room door, one of two external dorm rooms on campus. Way too much freedom for our young, curious selves. Lighters clicking, inhaling, microwave beeps, can top popping. Outside coming in through the open windows. Knock at the door. Loud John.
Another knock: Savannah. It was like seeing a Barbie in a dirty mosh pit. She locked herself out of our dorm. The guys watched her intently like an animal in a zoo. I had told them so much about her evangelism, how she talked about Jesus as if he were a best friend from back home. I gave her our key. Heavy door slammed shut.
“God’s not real!” Loud John shouted. Laughter inside. Silence outside.
Laughter and screams down the all girls dorm halls, clicking metal keys in old locks, backpacks zipped open and shut open and shut, heavy textbooks thrown on beds and tables.
“Can I ask you something?” Savannah asked me a week later with her coy smile, the silent giggle laugh.
“Sure.”
“When I stopped by the dorm the other day, why did someone yell, ‘God’s not real?’”
“They were just kidding,” I said too fast.
“Yeah, but why would they say that?”
I was caught.
“It was just a joke.”
“But it makes me feel like you’ve been talking about me. Like, how would they know I believe in God?”
I made up something about her cross necklace, or maybe they saw the Jesus fish tattoo on her foot, or maybe I mentioned she was in Campus Crusade for Christ.
“Oh,” she said with a smile. She didn’t believe me. “Can I have one of these?” She reached in and grabbed one of my prized Starbucks Frappuccinos in a glass bottle. Twist of metal — pop of the seal. “Thanks.”
I appeased my guilt over the coming days by telling myself that she probably feels like a martyr. She could probably go back to her church friends and tell them her story and they would tell her she was brave and she stood up for Christ. She would be lauded as a hero. And I’m just the asshole. They would pray for me.
At least she has someone to pray to.