Conversion conversations

One foible of working from home is the great temptation to stay in pajamas all day, sans bra and makeup. It can make for awkward encounters if you feel compelled to open your front door.

He blushed a shade of pink that reminded me of a newly washed baby, a color that I wished I could duplicate on my pale, aging cheeks.

I admired his faith and dedication, but was amused that he suddenly had somewhere else to be when I offered to share my beliefs with him. Seems his door-to-door calling didn’t extend to reciprocating conversion chitchat.

The Trifecta challenge this week is: Color [noun \ˈkə-lər\] 3: complexion tint

The 100 Word Challenge is to tell a story in only 100 words. This week’s theme is ‘Calling’

Strike three

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

The water rises steadily around me, lapping in great waves along the counter top, the spray mingling with my tears. Crying not from fear or sorrow, but from the righteousness of my situation.

My knees folded under my chin, I’m quickly losing sensation in my legs and feet. Growing numb from the cold and lack of circulation, I watch out the kitchen window at the helicopters circling our cluster of homes being flooded by the erupting well.

There was so much water, more than any of us anticipated. The others have already fled, still I stay. While the sink hole opens up, swallowing the James’ home and Miss Carter’s little bungalow, I know I will be saved. I believe, but the others failed in their faith.

My reward will be great, my sacrifice deemed worthy.

When the city sent police officers to rid me of my home, I rebuffed them. Rebuking them for their lack of honor, rejecting their false words of calamity. My prayers will be answered.

The boats were next. Men in green ranger uniforms argued I was in dire straits, and that they were there to protect me, to take me to safe ground. Philistines! Do they not know of the power of my holy Rescuer?

Finally they have come with their assault from above. What more can I do to spurn these attempts to break my convictions? I raise my voice in glory and praise, calling on the One to deliver me from this flood, just as Noah was delivered, just as Moses parted the Red Sea.

As the water rises above my head, the last of my breath bubbling from my lips, still I stay.

Master Class, brain-child of Eric Storch, is an exercise in flash fiction, building on the opening sentence of a famous (or not-so-famous) book. This week’s inspiration comes from “I Capture the Castle” by Dodie Smith.

Inspired also by an old anecdote about a flood victim that sat on the roof of his house, praying and waiting for God to save him. Three times, rescuers tried to get him to leave the rising water, three times he refused, finally succumbing to the deluge. At the Pearly Gates, he asked St. Peter why his prayers for rescue went unanswered. St. Peter replied, “We tried to save you three times. We sent the police in a car, we sent rangers in a boat, and we sent the Coast Guard in a helicopter.”

A light for all the world

Her beatific countenance shone down upon us, bathing all in her love and warmth. Arms spread, her acceptance offered with no conditions. Her smile as open and inviting as a mother’s embrace.

A hymn of celebration filled the air, her exultant voice melding with the seraphim and cherubim. One song for the innocent and pure, for the lost and sick, for the faithful and the searching.

A celestial choir raising a joyful noise to the heavens, an orchestra of ethereal instruments accompanying their concert of rejoicing.

A child is born this night, a light for all the world to behold.

The 100 Word Challenge theme this week is ‘Countenance

Tune in at 9

“You get the popcorn and sodas, and I’ll set up the TiVo,” kneeling in front of his new DVD recorder, the minor demon looked more like he was genuflecting before an electronic altar than trying to record a television broadcast.

His companion, carrying a bowl of burnt mushroomed kernels and mugs of flat root beer, put the snacks on the coffee table. Sitting on the sofa, she thumbed through the TV guide to get the channel number. “Tell me again why we’re recording the debate if we’re already watching it?”

“It’s history, babe,” taking the guide from her, he read off the station codes. “This should be the best one yet.”

A quick click of remote control buttons, and a red light blinked on the DVD display. A massive, monster head, adorned with curving black horns, came into view. As the anchor fiend droned on about the day’s news, a scroll message trailed across the bottom of the screen: “Tonight: the first debate of Apocalypse 2013. God vs. Satan. Who will win the election? Tune in at 9!”

Crossing her arms, then her legs, the female demon leaned back into the cushions as she put her feet up on the table, heaving a bored sigh. “I’m just tired of them, it’s all the same thing every year.”

He lost his balance and fell over when he turned sharply to look at her. “What the Hell? Are you kidding? This is epic, the Great Prince of the Netherworld is all over that goody-goody this time. These recordings’ll be priceless once he wins and banishes all those foul, pasty wimps.”

She just shook her head and dropped her feet to the floor. Leaning forward, she looked around the room then lowered her voice so the other demon had to strain to hear her.

“I’m not so sure he is winning,” she immediately covered her mouth with her hand.

“How can you say that? The Prince has taken away everything from the pawn, who will break soon, and that’ll mark a decisive victory.” The male demon had crawled toward the couch, speaking in a low, but urgent voice.

“But, don’t you see,” she said, almost pleading, “The pawn hasn’t broken. He’s still determined to praise his deity. He’s lost his family and friends, his wealth, his health, everything, and nothing has made him curse God. Even you have to admit that’s impressive devotion.”

Rubbing his hands over his face, the male demon stood up, jabbing a taloned finger at his companion, “you better be careful what you say next. I won’t ignore blatant heresy. His Evilness is all-powerful and he will win!”

The female picked up a mug, slowly sipping its contents. Holding the glass between two hands, she swished her words around in her mouth, carefully thinking through her response.

“Maybe you should be careful what you say,” turning her head slightly to look up at him, she gave him a skewed stare. “If this turns out how I think it will, it’s you who should worry. I know what I’m going to do.”

Setting down her glass, she confidently made an odd pattern in the air with two fingers and thumb of her right hand – touching her forehead, then heart, and finally both shoulders.

He would swear later that was when her lovely red skin began to fade to a ghastly human pink.

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Diane gave me this prompt: Tonight: the first debate of Apocalypse (insert year here). God vs. Satan. Who will win the election? Tune in at 9!.

I gave Eric Storch this prompt: “I know a way to stay friends forever, There’s really nothing to it, I tell you what to do, And you do it” ~ Shel Silverstein You don’t have to use the actual quote.

Hypothetical religion

Hypothetically, let’s say Jesus never went to Jerusalem. He was never sentenced to die, or He was secreted out of the city by His devoted disciples. He continued to preach, teach and spread His message until He died of natural causes at an advanced age.

Would Christianity still be a worldwide religion, or would it have died with Jesus?

The biggest conflict I have with my faith, isn’t believing or not believing that Jesus died and was resurrected. It’s just wanting to know why He had to died in the first place and in the manner He did. Why was being the Son of God not enough?

I’m not debating His deity, not denying Him being the earthly Son of God. What I want to know, what no one has been able to articulate to me, is… what did His dying change? I know the biblically annotated responses, I want the historical, the cultural, the actual effect.

Up until the point of His death and resurrection, what did people of that era believe they had to do, what ritual or offering had to be made, to secure entrance into the Kingdom of God? It certainly wasn’t the simple profession of faith that is required now.

I’ve read the stories about Jesus’ anger at the money changers in the temple. That they were selling cattle, sheep, and doves for sacrifice. (My religious education tells me it wasn’t the sacrifices He objected to, but rather selling animals and exchanging money inside the temple.)

Was the pathway into heaven through blood sacrifice? Even in the story of Cain and Abel, Abel’s offering from his flock was favored over Cain’s offering of crops. Is it the brutality of religion what no one is willing to discuss? Was the death of Jesus the ultimate ritual killing? Through His death, was the need for further sacrifice eliminated?

This question has taunted me for many years, and I don’t expect to find the answer any time soon. Until I do, I can only live my life as best I can, hoping I’m doing something right.

Side note:
I’m amused by people who want to rail about the rationality of religion. Saying that people of faith are weak-minded lemmings who are merely worshipping an imaginary friend in the sky. It’s no more irrational than believing that the entire universe, as vast and ever-expanding that it is, was created by some microscopic, spontaneous explosion.

Take me to the river

Standing on the bank in my cotton shift, my hair loose upon my shoulders, I watch as the others are raised in the Spirit.

Arms hugging my chest, I try to calm my shivering – not against the cold, but fear. Fear that when I’m laid under my hair will rise around my face, threatening to choke the life out of me.

I am a fraud. Prepared for this ritual my entire life, I cannot believe what I do not understand. I pray that I don’t die before I’m saved.

Yet, isn’t a life of lies still an eternity of torment?

100 Word Song, a writing challenge from Lance based on a weekly music prompt. This week’s challenge is inspired by Live, “Pain Lies On The Riverside.”

Pain lies on the riverside
And Pain will never say goodbye
Pain lies on the riverside
So put you feet in the water
Put your head in the water
Put your soul in the water

Edit:
When I was younger, about 12 or 13, I attended baptism class at my church. It was several weeks of religious education that once completed, the participants traditionally were baptized. It wasn’t required, but I don’t remember anyone ever not being baptized after the classes. I didn’t want to follow through with the final ceremony, but it was what was expected of me.

At this church, baptism was total submersion. We weren’t baptized in the river, but there was a baptistery at the front of the church behind the chancel. It was usually closed off by a heavy curtain. The pool was like a huge aquarium. A clear glass wall rose up about four feet, and was open at the top so the pastor and supplicant could be seen and heard by the entire congregation.

On these graduation Sundays, we kids were all dressed in white robes. Stepping into the water, the first thing we noticed was how cold it was. Crossing our arms over our chest, the pastor laid one hand over ours, and the other on our back. There were several questions asked and answered in the affirmative, then we were drawn under the water.

The natural tendency was to struggle to get above the water, to try to get a foothold. To struggle would have been embarrassing to us, and to our parents and other family attending the ceremony. We had to give over complete trust to our pastor.

As an adult, it’s still difficult to not struggle against convention, to set aside my doubts and surrender to blind faith. I need to feel grounded, but I didn’t then, and I don’t now.

Are you ready

Are you ready?

Keeping her head down, Kylie pretended to read the rice paper thin pages of the book open on her lap. By concentrating on the words, her lips moving as she sounded out each syllable, the six-year-old could filter out most of what the man was saying.

Dressed in a white chasuble, a gold tasselled shawl hanging around his neck, the cleric held a microphone in one hand and a book like her’s in the other. He paced from one side of the chancel to the other, emphasizing his sermon’s message by raising the leather bound bible over his head or gesturing with it toward the congregation.

Ending his pacing at the pulpit, he laid the book open, so he could face the worshippers. His speech becoming louder, shriller, and more frantic, working up to a crescendo of condemnation.

She felt the rumbling through her seat, and risked a sidelong peek at her mother. She had her bible clutched to her chest in white knuckle hands. Her mother’s lips were moving too, but she wasn’t reading, she was repeating the same phrase over and over. Tears, tracing down her cheeks, dripped onto the red velveteen padding of their pew, and splashed on Kylie’s arm.

“We are all wretched sinners, unworthy of salvation… We are all wretched sinners, unworthy of salvation…”

Reaching toward her mother, Kylie jumped when the cleric slammed his fist down on the altar. Looking up, she saw he was pointing directly at her.

“Are we sheep being led to slaughter,” he railed, leaning over the edge of the lectern, shaking his finger at Kylie. “Remember, if you go to hell, it’s your fault!”

Rule of thirds

Trifecta, a weekly one-word prompt, challenges writers to use that word in its third definition form, using no less than 33 words or no more than 333. The week’s prompt is: Wretched [adj.\ˈre-chəd\] 3: being or appearing mean, miserable, or contemptible

The above sign is one of  thousands of wooden and concrete signs crafted by Henry Harrison Mayes which he planted along heavily traveled roadways beginning in 1917, and continuing for nearly 60 years. These signs and crosses were seen from Chicago to Atlanta,  to LIttle Rock to West Palm Beach – eventually being displayed in 44 states. Several of Mayes signs are now on display at the Museum of Appalachia in Norris, TN.