RELIGION | MEMOIR
The Cult in the Park
Christianity in the shadows
It was a humid Tuesday in July, and the silhouettes of trees were towering over my father and I as we walked our dog, Butters, through the park. It was nearly 11PM, and the moisture in the air was so thick that it began coating our skin the second we emerged from the car.
Butters has a bright caramel blonde coat, but as he dashed through the night, he was practically invisible. He ran forward, backward, and in erratic little circles, the grass rustling furiously with each leap and bound. He’s almost three, but his puppy spirit is still in full swing.
As we scampered through the darkness, there was hardly a sound to be heard besides the overbearing orchestra of crickets surrounding us in every direction. But beneath their chirping, I could faintly make out a chant.
“Do you hear that?” I asked my dad.
But with the ears of a septuagenarian who spent his life playing music, he didn’t. “The crickets?”
“No… it’s like a faint… tribal chant?”
“Hmm… I don’t hear anything.”
“I think we should put Butters back on the leash.”
As we continued trudging through the pitch black arboretum, the chorus of voices continued to…
