Let the People Prey

Sunday mornings come too soon. I’ve been going to church since I was a child, and never was there a Sunday I didn’t hate. But, I was never quite sure how to abandon the practice; it’s become a kind of ritual to me. One too sacred to break, and too disturbing to embrace. I take my seat towards the back of the sanctuary, my drab purple skirt crinkling as I sit. Heavy wooden doors close with resounding finality and the room is silent for a few moments.
Abruptly the band begins to play, and it seems much too loud, as usual. The congregation rises from the glossy benches and begins to sing; an electronic screen slides down from the ceiling should anyone have forgotten the words. I too stand, reluctantly, moving my mouth to match the words, but no sound forms in my throat. Mostly I stare at the pastor and his wife, seated front and center. They were the last to sit and the first stand.
The music swells and shifts between a variety of songs, and the pastor begins to clap his hands enthusiastically, one foot keeping pace with the beat. His wife doesn’t join him, but instead shuts her eyes and tilts her head upward. What a perfect couple they make, together becoming the very picture of devout worship.
The pastor and his wife are disappointingly innocent. As pure and ignorant as the white ribbon that winds around the large cross hung in the front of the church. They truly believe themselves to be doing God’s work, I think. And while their displays are ostentatious, I cannot name them false. But the congregation the pastor so foolishly loves and leads? Such filthy secrets they harbor, secrets that infest them like parasites. If I listen close enough I can hear dull, dry whispers of their confessions bounce off the grey walls of the sanctuary.
The time for song has ended and the gallant pastor takes his place behind his sturdy podium. What will he preach about today I wonder? Truth? Love? Purity? All of them will be lost in the sea of sins before him, but the pastor is oblivious. Poor fool.
Directly in front of me sits the local banker in her long sleeved grey dress, making her appear as little more than a shadow beneath her long black hair. She seems innocent enough, but her secrets hang from her body. Reports of missing items trail behind her like receipts. She led communion once, and the pristine white table clothes were not available for use the following month; they had never been returned. Nervous fingers twist a stray thread on her dress, turning her finger a sickly purple before the fiber finally snaps.
Not far from her, only a few seats down, is the navy and khaki clad youth pastor. He’s fairly young, no more than 30. He’s tall, and his inflated sense of self only adds to his height. When not attending business meetings at the church, he hosts a small bible study at his home. The group consists of eight high school girls, and is always conducted on the nights his wife is away. The beautiful bride sits next to him, her peach colored skirt tucked carefully in between her legs and the seat, her hands folded in her lap. I watch her for a few minutes, and she doesn’t move. I have observed her going an entire sermon without moving. Even when her husband’s arm slides around her shoulders, she doesn’t move.
A shudder runs down the base of my neck as I feel the breath of the old man behind me drifting across it, interrupting my thoughts. I try to avoid sitting by him, but at times I am unsuccessful. I reach up and snap the collar of my jacket up around my neck. I can picture what he must look like sitting behind me. His legs will be crossed, with his pants creeping up his ankles, just enough to show the tops of his white socks. Reading glasses will be perched at the tip of his nose, their gold rims catching the rays of the florescent lights on the ceiling. His jaunty cap will be resting on the seat beside him, adding to his grandfatherly appearance. His wife disappeared ten years ago, and they later found her body in the river. Her husband, conveniently, knew little about her disappearance. Much to the adoration of the congregation he was blessed by God with a spirit of forgiveness towards her killer- so much so that he didn’t even cry at her funeral.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see the twenty-something boy located two seats down from the old man. He goes to college here in town, and even today he is sporting his school colors in a bright red sweater vest, layered over a crisp, white button-down. On Sundays, he takes pride in participating in a purity-based bible study after the sermon. On the weekends, he takes pride in screwing any girl on campus that will have him. Today his glances fall on the youth pastor’s wife. Big ambitions, I think to myself. Though I appear to be the only one who has noticed his habits. What an upstanding young gentleman, all the elderly women of the church say, so handsome. A nice boy.
What does anyone here know about nice? I should think their own festering sins would make them all the more aware to the sins of those around them, but the opposite seems to be true.
Beside me sits my favorite of them all. She’s middle-aged, tanned to an orange glow. Every item of clothing on her sports a visible designer label. Every strand of hair is styled to perfection, afraid to move from its assigned place. She has her beady eyes trained on the pastor, squinted in concentration. Every person in this room is guilty of despicable evils, but hers are the most disgusting of all. As always, her mouth is set in a tight line, twitching at the corners every few minutes. I imagine that the twitches coincide with her disgusted thoughts of the people around her. Make no mistake, she shakes hands when we are called to, she participates in devotions weekly, and the offering plate is always heavier after passing her, but the stink of haughtiness overwhelms all of her actions, much like her perfume. Bile rises in the back of my throat. I swallow and pry my eyes away from her.
I look down into my lap, at the Bible that I haven’t bothered to open. My hands itch to heave it across the room, perhaps at the wooden cross. Maybe at the pastor. Maybe out the window.
The pastor calls for us to bow our heads in prayer with him, signaling the end of his sermon. Each head, the liar, the thief, the cheater, the killer and the dozens of others around them, bow in automatic unison. I keep my head up, my eyes open.
I think of performing my own sermon right now. Liars! I would say. Fakes! Hypocrites! Sinners, all of you. I wouldn’t pretend any longer that I didn’t know, that I didn’t see.
But I say nothing. We have a complex parasite relationship, and I mustn’t upset the balance. Instead I rise with them for the benediction.
“Finally, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is pure, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received, do; and the God of peace be with you. And God’s people said?”
Amen.