Brandon Triola
M.Ed. (AEA)
The band on the stage began their final song. I peered over my shoulder and saw the same familiar sight. Hands raised, eyes closed, the same world I pretended to believe in for years, convinced it was lifting me to new heights, but it never did. I was simply performing. I could never stop performing, the same way they could never stop being genuine. It was wrong for me to imitate them, almost sinful. I had enough sin in my life already.
I finished scanning the horizon of praising saints and returned my gaze to the rock star on stage. His hand was also reaching to the infinite ceiling. The ellipsoidal lights accented his soul patch and cast his shadow over the band behind him. He looked so authentic, so real, as if he hadn’t already done this once already just 45 minutes ago, as if he wasn’t going to do this exact same thing at 5pm that same evening. A part of me envied him. A part of me despised him as well. He stood on stage with no pulpit. The spikey-haired Axe gel model in his slim-fit flannel shirt, neatly tucked in so that his brass belt buckle remained in charge of his attire, seen by all. His dark stone-washed jeans were like a waterfall cascading downward, just below the jeweled belt buckle at his midsection. They lead down to the cove of his wardrobe, dark brown boots with a light tan stitch that wrapped around the rubber soles, giving definition and character.
Behind his retro 1950s eyewear, I could see his eyelids locked tight. No one knew the combination to open them, least of all me, but they had to remain closed. It was protocol. It was faith. It was fake, and it was ethereal, a mystery. The band’s praise song finished, the ark was closed back up, and it was once again safe for everyone to open their eyes without the fear of lighting piercing their chest a la Spielberg. The ceremony continued on until Pastor Gap model reached his benediction. Once again, it was requested that all eyelids clamp down to their locked and reverent positions. He had received a special message this morning from the Almighty, and the only way to get the message, the gift, was to not watch him speak. I could never close my eyes. It betrayed my individuality, my uniqueness, my holy rebellious righteousness. Plus, I was an asshole. It was okay though. Pastor Life-Is-Awesome never checked us like grandma used to when we’d pray around the dinner table. I was safe from judgment.
He extended his arm, palm down obviously (you can’t obtain the benediction any other way) and the sheep fed away. Service was nearly complete. Routine was once again successful…almost. What happened that Sunday morning, which was mostly gloomy and muggy except for that one sunny bullet hole in the stratus sheet of clouds over the church, was a most unexpected anomaly. Pastor Hipster completely broke protocol.
I’m not sure why it happened, if it was predestination or free will (god what a paradox), but The Shepard, Jeremy Camp’s brosef, disobeyed the command of his brain and opened his eyelids, actually opened them during a benediction. It was as if (insert the most unbelievable simile here). His irises were aglow with the beauty of Aslan. The whites of his eyeballs were pure snow. Was he insane! What about the message? How was the flock supposed to receive the message if the Shepard had his eyes opened, but before I could process the severity of the situation, it escalated to an unprecedented level of Dante’s Divine Comedy. He looked directly at me.
I froze like Mr. Tumnus succumbing to the curse of the White Witch. Why was he looking at me? Why had he opened his eyes? What did this mean? Why didn’t Frodo just ride the damn eagles to Mordor to destroy the ring? Our eyes remained locked on one another until I couldn’t take the holy gaze anymore. I crossed my arms and lowered my head, the heat of his stare I could still feel on the top of my also Axe-filled greasy hair. This was bad. So very bad. What else did he know about me? Did he know that I never raise my hands during any of the Chris Tomlin songs, never sang, never ever closed my eyes when he beckoned? Oh, the things he could know. I didn’t tithe online. I liked Buddhism. I know the names of certain porn stars. I read Christopher Hitchens and fucking hate the Duggar family. Fireproof was a boring-ass movie, and Matt Walsh’s blog made me want to be an atheist. It was over. All over now. He knew everything. He knew. Had to know. I had to get out of there before it was too late.
The benediction ended and the band played the exit music than no one cares about. Thank god I never brought a bible, because it would have simply slowed me down. I left my seat, forgetting my sermon-fill-in-the-blank notes I never read, and tried to make my way down the aisle. I was making good time until I ran into the Plexus couples. Goddamnit. Of all days, why did I have to run into them? They must have come in late. I usually try to sit as far away from them as I can, because like clock-work, after every service, it was the same crap. Two husbands talking about their construction companies they inherited from their dads, and the two wives talking about their next Plexus meeting to recruit more bored housewives who want to think they are in a small business and not a pyramid scheme. They clogged the aisles with their kids and conversations. First, they used to clog aisles showing each other their creepy, sleeping newborn baby in empty watering cans pics and now, Plexus. I turned over my shoulder to see if Pastor God-called-me-too-be-nondenominational was still on stage, but thank god, he was gone. I still wanted to leave as soon as possible though. I pushed through the Plexus couples as they finished talking about some new weight loss miracle wrap that constricts body fat. I couldn’t help but feel bad for those Plexus wives, because one day all they loved would be gone, and they’d be alone in a nursing home facing a vacant wall from the un-comfort of a wheelchair.
I got to the lobby and weaved through the remaining fellowship circles, dodging hands holding Styrofoam coffee cups filled with divine decaf obtained from the Starbuckseque cathedral in the foyer. Finally, I staggered out the tinted glass doors and into the parking lot. I saw the cop at the church entrance start to put on his orange vest. He hadn’t started to stop traffic on Highway 76 yet. I still had time to avoid the exodus of people who hadn’t left the church yet. I was home free. Pastor-Free-Base-Rock-Climber didn’t know my name, so I knew I could just sit somewhere else in the arena when I came back in another four weeks, if I came back. I wasn’t a member, so he couldn’t find me. I never filled out visitor cards, never volunteered at VBS (I couldn’t lie to kids about a flood that was so obviously meant to be taken metaphorically. It would be wrong), and I never joined small groups because trying to sleep with women in the “content and single” crowd was too strenuous. They were always coming out of their slutty phase and re-virginizing for the next man god was preparing for them. The relief breath expelled from my mouth. As far as I was concerned, the eye contact with Pastor Two-Week-Summer-Mission-Trips-Are-Just-Like-What-The-Apostles-Did never happened. Yep, life was good, well, as good as it could be with my knowledge of all the death and tragedy that consumed Africa every day.
Then, it happened, and it was so horrible, like seeing the light, and realizing it’s just the sun about to come closer and burn your retinas.
“Hey, I’m Rick. I’m the pastor here.”
Son of a bitch. Blind sighted by the hipster flannel dressed great white I never saw coming while paddling on my agnostic surfboard. Where’d he come from? How’d he make it to the parking lot at the same time I did? He must’ve used the backstage door near the playground.
Well, guess it was time to put on my mask.
“Hi,” I responded as I held out my ashamed hand to shake his. He knew my eyes were opened. I know he did. For a moment I believed that our eyes hadn’t really met one another during the service, but life wasn’t that good. Not to me anyway. This parking lot encounter was a complete result of the eye contact equation balancing itself out.
“This is about my eyes being opened when you asked us to close them during that last prayer isn’t it?” Stating the obvious, I know, but I wanted to get it out of the way.
“Sort of,” he agreed, “but not really. It was more of a catalyst, you might say.”
A catalyst? A catalyst for what?
“I know you’ve been coming here off and on for a while, and when we both opened our eyes in the prayer and saw one another, I realized that I’ve never introduced myself to you, and I just wanted to do that.”
“Yeah, that was weird. You’ve never done that before, opening your eyes at that part. You usually keep them closed. Sorry if it threw you off.” I was so uncomfortable. I was afraid what Pastor Bono was going to say next.
“No, it’s no problem...” Pastor Rick started to trail off. I knew he was wanting me to tell him my name, so I thought I’d post-modern myself to that point in the conversation.
“Garrett. I’m Garret,” I said.
“Well, it was no problem Garrett. I don’t know why I opened mine either. It was weird for me too.”
“Oh, so I guess it was like a god thing for you?” I tried to Sherlock Homes his evangelical mind to piece together his thought process.
“Perhaps,” he solemnly replied. “Whatever it was, it made me want to meet you.”
“Well, thanks.” Was it over? Was the conversation over now? Could I leave? god, I wanted to leave. The traffic cop was blowing his metallic mouth piece like it was a freaking rape whistle, trying to direct the herds of church and secular cars to the correct lanes, telling them when to stop and when to go. I could just see the church folks growing impatient because they wanted Cracker Barrel so much, and I knew the cars on Highway 76 were cursing about the wasted taxpayer money that was being used to direct religious traffic each Sunday morning.
“Do you usually come to services alone?” He was continuing the conversation. It wasn’t over. Shit. It wasn’t over. This was worse than the Plexus couples.
“Yeah, I do. And I don’t really raise my hands or close my eyes or sing when everyone else does, so I hope that’s okay.” Why did I tell him that? Why the hell did I just tell him that?
“Oh that’s fine.”
Sure it was Pastor Rick. Sure it was.
“Can I ask why you don’t join in the praises, if you don’t mind? I’m not judging, just curious.”
Not judging? The hell you aren’t. You have an agenda. We all do. Everyone always has an agenda in person-to-person interaction. Freud showed us that. There is nothing authentic anymore. Everything has been experienced at one time or another in human history.
How was I going to respond without being honest? That’s all I knew. Honesty. I knew everything. Life, the death of a child, suicidal thoughts, divorce, adultery, lust, loss of faith. He didn’t really want to know all that. No one ever really wants to know any of that unless they can frame it in the beautiful parts of Psalms and post it as an awesome Facebook meme. No one wants to read Ecclesiastes.
“You don’t really want to know Pastor.” He didn’t know he didn’t want to know, so I was going to have to show him.
“Call me Rick.”
“I’d rather call you Pastor Rick, if that’s okay.”
“Okay, that’s fine, and I do. I do want to know.”
Oh, Pastor Rick, so full of shit and completely unaware of it. Jesus, the amount of people in my life who said they wanted to know. All of them suddenly flashed through my mind. Kelly, my ex-girlfriend who overdosed on Ambien (she was depressed and not my girlfriend at the time. It wasn’t like she killed herself while we were dating or because I was a terrible boyfriend). There was the random date at the coffee shop who left me mid-date when I told her about Ethan’s death. Apparently, a son’s departure from existence soured her non-fat-no-foam vanilla latte. And I can’t forget Derek, my best bud who said if I ever talked again about the stupid affair Julie had while we were married, he wouldn’t ever go to Buffalo Wild Wings again. People never really want to know, not if it upsets how they feel god arranges life, not if it make them question their assured theology, not if it messed up their justified understanding of how humanity functioned in the master plan of god. Pastor Rick didn’t want to know. It was his job to pretend he wanted to know, just like the rest of them.
But he asked, so I told.
“It’s not real to me to do all that stuff Pastor Rick, all the service rituals. It’s fake for me.”
“You don’t think God wants to hear from you in church?”
“I’m not even sure if he’s there.”
Pastor Rick stopped. I wondered which Jon Piper chapter he was trying to access in his mind catalog.
“Well, it takes faith,” Pastor Rick responded, finding his bearings. “We have to ask him for faith when we doubt.”
“Yeah, no, I got that Pastor Rick. I read those books too, after I read the Bible cover to cover, the protestant and catholic one, and the books that almost got voted in at Nicaea, but didn’t.”
“Wow, so you’re pretty smart.” Pretty smart? Come on, Pastor Rick.
“Actually, very smart. Probably smarter than you.”
“Think so?”
“Pretty sure. One time in a sermon, you said that purgatory was an invention of the medieval church, but that’s not really true. Most early Christian tombs had prayers for the dead written on the walls. So, if purgatory wasn’t a real thing or a medieval invention, why were the first Christians praying for the souls of people after they died? I’m sure you didn’t mean to be misleading, but it kind of was.”
“Well, thanks for alerting me to that. I’ll try to be more cautious in the future.”
I started shifting my feet from side to side, hoping that I was done, but Pastor Rick continued to try to understand me, to know me.
“Garrett, would you like to get lunch some time?”
“Why?” I asked, wondering what Pastor Rick’s angle was. He probably pitied me. Thought he could reach me or something, if there was even a part of me left that could be reached.
“I told you,” he said. “I just wanted to get to know you more. I like conversation, and you seem like you can have some good ones.”
Conversations? I usually didn’t do well in conversations, not for very long anyway. Wasn’t that obvious from the memories in my mind which he had no access to?
“I don’t know,” I said with mild hesitation, well, vocally it came across as mild hesitation. In my thoughts it was more like ‘fuuuuuuuuck noooooooo’.
“Why not?” Pastor Rick pressed.
“Pastor Rick…” I had to put an end to this. It was leading somewhere I didn’t want to go.
“You seem like you are a good man. You truly may be, but if this is going to be like a morning bible chat with biscuits and orange juice, or maybe a blue berry muffin or some shit like that, I’d rather not.”
“Well, just because I’m a pastor, doesn’t mean it has to always be talks about God and the Bible.”
“No, but it does. It always becomes that.” It always became that.
“Does talking about God upset you Garrett?”
“No, but trying to act like he has a purpose for me in this life does.”
“And why’s that?”
Honesty overdrive, here it came. The neurons were firing, and my mouth was about to take over steering duties from my brain. It was a wrestling match for sure, but my lips always won. Prepared to become really pissed Pastor Rick, because you have no answers for me.
“Do you think God called you to be a pastor? To start this church and all that?”
“I do. I believe that.”
“Why?”
“I just felt his voice, his presence.”
“Well, I don’t believe he called you.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I believe you truly believe his voice is what you thought you heard, but I think it was just your ego manifesting itself into believing it was god.”
Pastor Rick didn’t respond immediately. His eyes shifted to the ground. It looked like he might be thinking about what I said, but how could I really ever know?
“That could be true,” he admitted.
“But, you don’t really think that is true, do you? Honestly?”
“No, I don’t. I think that’s your interpretation, and it makes you feel better. You see a man achieve success in his own life, and you’re able to explain my faith with psychology that adapts to your view. I get it though. I’d probably do it too.”
“Fair enough.” Nice move Ricky. Impressive.
“Garrett, do you believe in God, his goodness, his love for you?”
Oh, boy. Evangelization tool # 19.
“Some days. Depending on the day, yeah, I have faith, but then I see all the pain in the world, the tragedies, and I say, ‘fuck god, he’s either incompetent or indifferent’.”
“Do you think he has a purpose for you and your life?”
“If he does Pastor Rick, I don’t want to know about it.”
“Why’s that?”
“It takes too much faith to believe that.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“If he has a purpose for me, so be it, but I don’t want to be told it, believe it, or think at any time I know what that purpose is because it means I have to attribute purpose to other events in my life, and I don’t want to know why a certain event had to happen, or not happen. I don’t want to think about a god who has to have a purpose for my child dying, or for someone I don’t know getting cancer at a young age. I don’t want to know why you have never seen a tragedy like another man tearing your family apart by fucking your wife and you walking in on it. I don’t want to know the purpose that can be found in all that because it makes me hate god, or whoever is in charge of all this shit, and I don’t want to hate anymore. I have enough hate. I’d rather see it all as random and bad luck because it keeps me from hoping there is something better than what is right in front of me. Life isn’t beautiful Pastor Rick, just parts of it are.”
Pastor Rick. Me. Pastor Rick and me skipping the societal appetizers, the hospitality salads and cutting straight to the dark meat, the main course, the only real reason for existing I suppose.
“You’re a very wise man Garrett, far wiser than me I think. I’m so sorry for all you had to go through to gain that wisdom, and I know you’d trade it all for a blessed ignorance again…”
“You may be sorry, but you don’t wish it happened to you instead of me.”
“I don’t wish it for anyone, and you’re right, I probably wouldn’t sacrifice myself in your place, but I want to believe in someone who would.”
“Me too. I’d think I’d like that hope.”
“I think you already have it Garrett, a dark hope, but just as beautiful as a bright, ignorant hope like mine.”
No one ever called what I had inside me hope, but Pastor Rick did.
“You seem to be good at calling out bullshit in humans,” Pastor Rick continued. “I respect that. Would you come talk to me from time to time, after my sermons, maybe let me know how I could’ve said things a bit more delicately so it resonates with people who have been through what you have?”
I couldn’t remember the last time someone thought I could provide help. Usually, someone was trying to give it to me.
“Yeah, I could do that, sure.”
“Thank you, Garrett. It was nice to meet you.”
“It was nice to meet you too Pastor Rick.”
“God bless you Garrett.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You know what? Me either. I think I just say it sometimes because I feel like I have to say it.”
Pastor Rick walked back around the playground and through the stage door he used to track me down. He tripped over a lose brick in the stairs.
For a few years after that day we met together Sunday afternoons to talk but never at Cracker Barrel. Sometimes we’d talk about his sermons and sometimes about The Simpsons, sometimes about God and sometimes about how stupid TV had become. There were actually shows where people would sit around a table, watch YouTube clips and then talk about. That was the whole premise of the show. What the hell? How was this a thing for people to watch? We laughed a lot too. I cried every once and a while. We never prayed though, not like in church. I think what we did was prayer though. Who knows? Maybe he does. I think so. Yeah… He knows.
Pastor Rick died of lung cancer on October 21, 2013. The man never smoked a day in his life. I miss him and Ethan so much. Sometimes, I imagine the two of them talking about me in heaven. Pastor Rick telling my son how weird his dad became after he left earth, my son reminding him that I was always a little weird. I hope my son likes him as much as I did. He’d be a good dad for Ethan. Then there’s other times I see the two of them conspiring with one another to convince the Angel of Death to come and stop me breathing in my sleep, just so we can all hang out together as soon as possible. That’s my dark hope anyhow, but who knows really? Guess I’ll just have to keep my eyes open a little longer. I’m sure glad Pastor Rick did.