A day of rest

Sundays.  I’ve spent all but the last few years of my life hating them.  The disgust and dread met me like a clammy handshake as I woke on those days.  It was not a sick feeling based on the remorse of a weekend’s end or that of a hangover; it was a sick based on the forced experience of perpetuating a lie, faking a smile and pleasantries to convey the image He wanted me to portray and the image the others wanted to believe in.  I was the product of shining grace-what a child looks like when surrounded by Jesus’ love and discipline rooted in a healthy fear of both her father and God.  Women looked at me, smiled, and wished, often audibly, that, like me, their children knew the influence of a righteous man.  They cooed over my sweet family and how lucky my mother must be to be with such a spiritual leader.  I smiled and nodded out of fear of what He would do if I said what I was really thinking.

Really, bitch?  You think I am lucky?  You think my mother is lucky?  My mother is weak and afraid so she doesn’t leave this spiritual leader.  You want to know why?  He will scream horrible, violent, damaging things and might hit her again.  But you go on wishing your husband was more like my father.  It must be terrible to live with a man who works a normal blue-collar job, wants a beer at the end of the day, and doesn’t really enjoy going to church with you.  Poor you.  If you, this feeble woman in need of a Shepherd, had a keeper with a close relationship to his maker, all would be right because you would never need to take responsibility for your own actions.

One by one they came, smiling that fake flakey smile, earnestly shaking my one hand with both of theirs.  Women of all shapes and sizes, blondes, brunettes, and red heads alike, fawning over me as they made their way to Him.  My father’s little harem.  His army of insecure puppies who clung to each uttered word.  Eyes starry and wide, they would flash pearly whites and chuckle in adoration--the interaction leaving both with what they really wanted.  Under the guise of spirituality, His exchange of prayers and juicy morsels of red-letter wisdom left her heart alight with lust and her exchange, the hit of ego-stroking he needed so desperately, was her undying appreciation for the healing He brought to her life.  These transactions assured Him of his prowess and dissuaded any remarks to the contrary from those who knew Him better.

And so it went as it had gone since my mind formed memories.  The women’s names changed over the years.  Some stuck around for a few services, some for a few years, and one, The One, was always by his side, so close, close enough to do her inevitable damage.  But the particulars of the women’s identities mattered little to me, as I am sure they mattered little to Him.  So long as praise could be derived from these sappy, lost, and needy vessels, He held His cup aloft.

The Sunday promenade made me sick to my stomach.  It did so because I knew the actual truth.  The actual truth was not that Jesus died for my sins, but that people are willing to believe anything, to look past anything, if it gives them hope.