December 19, 2008
English Comp. 110

Plastic
The elder wore wrinkled jeans and a pressed, white-collared shirt, the unformed tails hanging out across his brown, leather belt; he gave me a tight-lipped smile as he handed me the tray of imitation-silver that was dedicated to this side of the vast congregation’s communion— one of many that were going around the dome-like room; whispered voices echoed against the far walls. I wrinkled my nose, tugged at a loose string hanging from my sweater, and passed the twinkling serving dish to my right; Bridgette accepted it, her blue eyes sparkling at me as she slipped a minuscule wafer between her glossy lips and past her gleaming teeth. She tucked a strand of her perfectly blonde hair behind an ear as she passed the communion on to my father, letting her slender fingers linger affectionately upon his twitching knee. She proceeded to adjust her black-and-white flowered spring dress, amplifying the effects of her abundant breasts before straightening the wide, black belt that rested across her slim, size four hips.
The pastor atop the dark, empty stage, wearing a sky-blue polo and khakis, cleared his throat, shoved his horn-rimmed glasses a little further up his nose pudgy, folded his gnarled hands in front of his skinny chest, and began to speak.
This was one of many gatherings at the large, square, brick-built Christian church located at the end of 7th highway in Blue Springs. During the period in which my father was married to my step-mother, Bridgette Stone, we went to several of these meetings, tossing away our sheets and leaving our beds early every Sunday morning. For my father, the purpose was to prove to his wife that he was open to the idea of their two religions meeting up in the middle— the “Strangite” side of Mormonism, joining the forces of the everyday “free to be you and me” side of Christianity. My purpose was to be part of what I felt was finally a real family. But the more time I spent inside that community, as well as the more time I spent with my step-mother, the more I began to see each for what they really were.
Bridgette Stone, a 5'8" blonde goddess, signs all of her paperwork, to this day, with the S and the T in “Stone” meeting up to form a swirly heart. She is just the right shade of tan, works out for an hour a day, and has nice, plump, immaculately fake boobs.
It’s not like I’m completely picking away at my step-mother, however, because no longer does she stand in that position. The annulment for her marriage to my father went through in April, under the pretense that she had lied about the fact that she had been living with her previous boyfriend of two years, precluding her disastrous relationship with someone whose variety of virtue could not be met.
My father withholds that virtue to this day, which is either because he is Mormon, or is the reason he became Mormon. He has been married to two people in his entire life: my mother, and Bridgette. These are the only two women that he has ever slept with, which many people find hard to believe, considering how much money he has, and how young, at forty-five, he still looks.
Bridgette had all of my father’s morals, but none of the virtue that is necessary to keep such morals. This is to say: does she disregard this virtue as a result of being the average Christian in America?
I wonder at whether anyone has noticed the way the money basket comes around, the way the priest begins speaking in those lulling tones, saying that the church needs the funding. What do they need, really? What comes of that money, when a church actually votes for who they want to be pastor each year, rather than allowing them to be appointed by a man of God? Sure, some of it goes to cameras, large screens during congregation, a beautiful, spacious building with high ceilings and coffee shops right through the entrance doors, a great band with spiritous music that other people make a living on writing. But what about that little bath tub at the head of the room, right beside the stage? What about the fact that members write out large checks for hundreds of dollars a week, but don’t see huge improvements in their church? People come crawling into congregations, begging to be saved from their sins, and are told that Jesus will love them anyway.
Why did God say not to do the things that people are always stressing about? Perhaps it was because he had a good reason.
I’m honestly not saying that all Christian churches are like this, because, obviously, churches vary. But they all have the same components: when someone needs to find a new church, what do they look for? Is it a great band, the drum line and guitar players rocking out, and music you can sing with their heart and soul to? Do they look for a lot of members that they can connect with? Do they look for tons of activities and sponsorships that they can be involved in, some place where they can lay the very foundation of the newest wing of the Church with their own hands?
Bible verses flash upon that screen that cost the entire congregation a total of $2,000, giving out selections about loving and forgiving, but none of the complex verses appear up there; keep it simple, keep it clean, keep it cheerful, because God will love you anyway. But what is there in the rest of the Bible that everyone else is ignoring? God wasn’t just bored and decided: Alas! My mood sways in the general direction of literary techniques! I shall poureth my heart and soul into a book! Because, if that were the case, he wouldn’t be coming up with complex metaphors such as this: Matthew 7:14: “Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.”
If there was a true church, it wouldn’t make sense to just go to any Christian church, would it? Did you know that there were only 120 followers of Jesus at the time of his crucifixion? It states precisely that in Acts 1:15.
Christian churches do not have all the answers that we, as curious humans, need to understand our purpose on Earth. We should realize this: Matthew 7:22: “Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? And in thy name have cast out devils? And in thy name done many wonderful works? And then will I profess unto them, I never knew you: depart from me, ye that work iniquity.”
The pastors that work within these churches, are they really there to bring people together under one unified religion? Or are they there because they get a paycheck at the end of every week, a bonus at the end of every year? Gee, that’s a very nice red convertible you have, Father!
The fake, pretentious love and joy presents a choking hazard, as if it were plastic, from within the large, covalent church room, where everyone is singing the Lord’s name after having swallowed down the water that was considered the second half of communion, rinsing down the tiny, flavorless little wafer that had probably been sitting in the back storage room for months already before being placed on the tray in bits. Bridgette tosses back her blonde hair with a bright smile on her face, and she meets my eyes again, her long, lacquered nails trailing through her youngest son’s hair from where he stands between the two of us. We exchange awkward grins, before turning back to face the front. She’s singing, her silky voice echoing through the rows of happy, joyous people who are in chorus with her. My lips are held tightly together as I try to look casual about not crying out “Lord, Lord”.