The curtains draw open, and the stage is set.

        Choking on inevitable bouts of consciousness, I twisted and ebbed upon the uncomfortable couch I somehow fell asleep on the night before. Uninviting rays of dawn crept through imperfect windows to sting my forlorn eyes; it was Sunday morning, Church Sunday. I sat upright on the couch, listening to various pops and cracks of my bones while the itchy surface of the couch's fabric pricked at my skin, suggesting it's age. I watched her enter the room with a papier-maché smile on her lips, and I forcefully returned one. It had been a short sixteen years of my time in this place, and I knew second-guessing my decisions wasn't uncommon. She warmly offered me a cup of coffee, and to cook breakfast, but such a textbook situation wasn't a regular commodity in this household, and I knew this. Alienated, I obliged. I sat down to a typical mediocre American breakfast as her Grandmother and Uncle who lived with them entered the kitchen. A thin woman she was, cigarette knit between wrinkle-laden lips patted me on the shoulder as if my current undertaking was to result in some sort of failure. Then again, I was the one. I was the guy like no other guy who stole the heart of her Grand-daughter; an expectation I never wanted to live up to. The boyfriends of old time's past have been abusive dead beats who would paint their necks red, if they weren't red enough already.

It was a cozy atmosphere in the tiny trailer in the battery acid sense of the word, because today was Church day. All the false hopes, insecurities and pipe-dreams all just wilted away, and I was (un)fortunate enough to be their special guest. The Family vehicle was an old beat up sedan which had seen better days, and by now I had realized that these aren't your average Church-folk. Realization came easy when you're poised upon uncomfortable furniture for 'X' amount of hours listening to quasi-religious babble only later to find that none of them actualize it in their lives. The drive to Church was an unforgettable one. Amidst all of the random effects littering the car floor, I nearly forgot about the ordeal ahead of me. One couldn't be entirely sure about the location of the ash-tray if one deliberately contemplates the amount of ashes on the floor next to it. The side window was smug with an array of cheaply out-dated stickers once meant to overtly display the occupants interests, but now it would be an embarrassment. For some reason the tagging of live-stock came to mind. In the backseat I sat in my purgatory, paying keen-eyes for any high-rise chapel or steeple, but I saw none.

"We're here!" her Grandmother exclaimed in pensive glee.
"Rich, this is going to be fun. I'm glad you're here with me." she said as she held my hand.

The Church was a small building sharing a lot with a row of houses before it, and it was no wonder I had missed it in my prior search. Immediately, past experiences caught up with me in flashback fashion, of how few there were. In my formative years the few times I stepped foot into any kind of Church were on an unorganized basis. As an unbaptized child, the only masses I attended were with the Family of Friends. Having very little knowledge into the likes of Church activities, each and every time I attended was befallen with wonder, anxiety, and alienation. Quite a cocktail for the youthful mind, one might say. At that point in time, the Church had succeeded. I was a typical God-fearing citizen, but as time ebbs and flows, so do revelations come.

Upon entering the Church, the out of place feeling crept up on me like cold hands around the back of my neck, but I didn't mind it. In the company of people who geniunely cared for me, I was complacent. What would follow is a mixture of both the former and the latter. Curiousity tingled in my chest, and anxiety crawled on my skin like insects. We sat in the first row of the small Church, and her Grandmother couldn't stop smiling in my direction. The night before I divulged my short visitations to the Church of Jesus Christ to her, and she had hoped that today I would grasp a better understanding. The pressure had mounted, and my palms became caked with sweat upon thinking about it. I glanced at the wooden altar, and in the corner of my eye I saw a young man aged approximately in his mid-twenties enter the room from a backdoor. White-collar, black clothes, it was all there. He was the Pastor of this Church. He approached the altar in formal fashion placing his bible on it's surface.

"Good morning ladies and gentleman. Today I would like to focus on the words of Jesus,
and the sacrament of meaning behind his sacrifice for us." the Pastor said with diligence.

I followed him with my eyes, paying attention to his words with insatiable curiousity. Up until now, the Bible and Jesus had been a bit of a myth for me. To hear someone speak of him in such a context was new to me, and demanded attention.

"Jesus died on the cross, and so the cross is our way of honoring, and respecting his sacrifice for our sins. Jesus taught that love, forgiveness, and acts of kindness shown to everyone, even our enemies is to be rewarded. Love is boundless, and conquers all obstacles in our paths." he continued on as he began to pace back and forth in front of the altar.

As his sermon ensued, I began to notice that he too was also following me with his eyes as he spoke. It didn't occur to me until much later that I stuck out like an atheist recieving excommunication considering it was my first visit. As time elapsed he covered various topics pertaining to Christian lore, including how to allow Jesus into your heart. There was something about him in the way that he spoke that seemed to mark the letters V.A.I.N. on his forehead, but observations aside, I listened. The time came for song and to praise the Lord which was a result of our voices and the Church piano. I didn't know the words, but her Family coaxed me to join in if I could. I sat quitely as I watched the members of the Church sing and dance in appraisal, a few shedding tears and even crying in Religious surrender. I couldn't provoke myself into it, and instead I was rewarded with chewing the inside of my cheek with a parched mouth.

The song and dance came to an end, thus concluding this Sunday's activities, but all was not over. I stood in full erect from my seat and turned to her Grandmother who asked me what I thought. I gave her an honest answer, in that I never expected what I had heard from the good Pastor. Speak of the Devil. He approached me from behind already in speech, as if he didn't care if I was facing him or not.

"Hey son, I noticed you were moved by my words earlier." he said with apparent pride.
"Yeah. I never knew those things about Jesus before." I replied with a tugging smile.
"I'm glad to see you allowed Jesus into your heart. Come with me for a moment."

He lead me away from the benches lining the Church in countless dizzying rows, and lead me up a few stairs behind the altar. My eyes instinctively seemed to fall upon the microphone he had in hand, and immediately my mind sparked into wildfire with possibilities. Slowly, my tense vision fell upon the seemingly endless amounts of tenants in the Church as he began to speak with them through the microphone.

"My Friends, a beautiful event has just been brought to my attention.
Our dear Friend Rich, the newest face which has joined us for the first
time today has told me of his blessed experience. Jesus has entered his
heart, and he wishes to relay this feeling to you."

.. I watched him speak, and I wondered how I had missed the fangs in his mouth during all of his prior talking. Who was he to say Jesus had entered my heart? On what grounds could he attempt to manipulate me with puppet strings? There I was, throat parched, nothing able to slake my thirst. My tongue was like a hungry snake tunneling through my skull searching for solace. I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat taking it's time to disappear. All eyes were on me, taking me in to be one of their own. If God truly endowed man with free-will, I hadn't seen my own in the walls of this Church. Lowering his hand, the Pastor placed the mic before my lips. They say silence is golden, but all I felt was rust. I was a stranger in an even stranger land, in the strangest situation. Eternities would pass, but in reality moments would give me all the time I needed to allow my eyes to dart around vigorously at the countless faces looking up at me. Nervous, the Pastor retracted the mic back to his own lips sheepishly.

"My dear Friends, it seems that our blessed Friend is moved
beyond words. Please, come and offer him your love and kindness.
Share this holy moment with him."

I stood still as if several roots beneath me held me tethered to the floor. They all came, in one large flock to approach me before the altar. In that very moment, I wasn't sure what to expect by all definitions of the phrase. So much had happened already that I didn't expect. One by one, they came before me and touched me with their hands, praising me in the name of Jesus. Some of them once again were moved to the point of tears, but all I had to move me was mental dismemberment. I had began to wonder who really mattered here. Was it there Religious ecstasy they so ached for each Sunday, or was it my assumed holy alignment? Finally, my eyes found my girlfriend and her Grandmother, who sure enough was leaking with tears. At a blank, my expression remained drained of emotion, and completely vacant. Only my eyes spoke of the feeling of invasion.

We left the Church afterward, and for the last time. For whatever reasons teenage angst may dictate, I broke up with the girl months afterward, and told no one of my Church experience. It was something I locked away in the subconscious vault of my mind, so it wasn't something I thought about much until years later when I could make sense of it. Though, I had wondered from time to time if the entire event was orchestrated. Her Grandmother was quite fond of the young Pastor, and knew him on a personal level. I suppose it's just another example of the Church leaving behind it's puncture wounds, and hiding their guilt-laden fangs.

The End.

Oh, and just let it be known that I don't regret that experience. I don't hold any conscious contempt for the Church either. I chose to take it for what it was, an eye opening event that would later pave the way for some purging. A better word would be cognitive dissonance.

*Image titled 'Vision and Mission', from the works of Alex Grey.