And Euripides Says, “Those Whom God Wishes to Destroy, He First Makes Mad.”

Our writer goes to a prayer circle in Texas.

Given enough time, certain things stop making sense. Sorrow, The Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and God’s Unconditional Love.

His love is conditional and it’s something we as human beings in this modern age of quid pro quo cannot satisfy. Prayers laced with vanity while we post pictures of the dead or the dying for the world to see. Sacraments have become hashtags and apathy is no longer recognized as long as small thumbs and hearts appear on pages that have replaced the Cathedral. I could have forgiven them if not for that small fact.

Let it be known I am not defending religion here. I am not preaching atheism. That would be too easy. I am simply putting the God Fearing sheep in their place.

They all wear Christ’s method of death or his uniform agony around necks.

They sport tattoos and scripture on arms while they beat their wives and boast about side bitches to the boys around a fire having a few cold ones.

They gesticulate and officiate faith like a social club. Which is what it has become.

“My lord and savior Jesus Christ has blessed me with this job.”

“In the hospital right now. Please send prayers.”

Hashtag Blessed, hashtag The lord is good. Hashtag my child is sick. Look how many hearts I got so far!

“You didn’t like my picture of me healing from a broken leg. You must hate me!”

A quote from some celebrity about how toxic people shouldn’t be in your life.

Women sit at pews and down the body of Christ chasing it with his blood while being freshly fucked by someone who isn’t their husband They want to love him but they can’t.

He sits in a small box and confesses about beating his children and wants his penance. Or he sits in a less orthodox church while Pastors rehash trash from the internet. Using small things that are proven to affect the heart that we think is a soul. Everything is okay as long as you say you’re sorry and “really mean it.”

Pastors in ten million dollar houses charge people to speak with them. They charge for appearances. They pretend to exorcise demons on a stage. The demon never responds until he has the microphone. They post up tests and charge for a reading. They claim God provides. He doesn’t. It is human ignorance and emptiness that provides their sustenance.

Mention a verse about how you should give to the lord before the collection plate goes around. If one put in a five another will put in a ten, if that man put in a ten he’ll put in a twenty. Their pretty clothes can’t hide their intentions. At least not to anyone that’s looking at the sheep instead of the Shepard.

Having nowhere to go leads us into the most peculiar situations. I was in one of those moods where everything is a metaphor. The junkie on the street preaching about God. The gutter laden with dirty needles. I could have slept there and taken every AIDS infected needle with grace and charm.

What I needed now was a reprieve. Something to convince me these people, this place, wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Even if it meant overpaying for cheap beer and pretending some idiot’s story was interesting. Hearing a boring person talk is like fucking a last resort. It only works if you’re drunk. It’ll kill the loneliness just long enough for you to forget about it. Then make you wake up in the morning craving it.

I’d never bothered with the bars around town, the patrons didn’t know how to drink. Everyone took shots and cheered and stupid shit. The men tried to get pussy and the women always asked what you did for a living. I made a little above minimum wage. If you took the child support into the equation I made around five dollars an hour. Me getting laid at all in that scene was impossible. Small town women need security. City chicks love an interesting soul. The owners always wanted a fucking DJ for some reason no matter how small the venue. Imagine a full PA in your ear. I suppose it makes people scream and get closer.

It was just one of those nights. I knew I wouldn’t find a friend or a woman to fill my bed. I needed something to convince me that I could take this just a little longer. I was terrified and sickened by the thoughts in my head. If this had to be it I was gonna make it as easy as possible.

I found the neon lights and the place looked empty. Which was good. It was always a sure way to get the bartender to hand you a few free drinks if you started up a conversation with him or her. As long as they weren’t buried in their phones. With any luck, I’d lose the urge for socializing before they started pouring in.

I opened the door and sat at the bar.

“We aren’t open until Eight,” the bartender said, his bald head shining and an affliction T-shirt two sizes too small made him seem bigger than he really was

“The flyer said seven.”

“Yeah been meaning to change that.”

“I’ll be back.”

I walked out. Toyed with the notion of going home and drinking, the saved money would be worth it. I considered calling a ride. I stayed my hand and decided to walk around town and take the sights in with vicious intent.
A block into it, I’d worked myself into a frenzy. Everything… .everyone I saw was a target.

Shops that had no possible way of staying open. At least not by legitimate means. Blessed Clothing. You Nique Boutique. Their windows displayed overpriced and worthless goods. They cooked the books while Paco sold cocaine and meth to the oil field trash that had come during the boom.

There was a VCR rental place that doubled as a photography studio. The place was rundown and as broken as everything in this area code. I caught my reflection in the dirty glass and stopped for a second. The dark rings around my eyes. The unshaven face. The dirty glass couldn’t hide my state from me.
Booze could make me look better. Feel better. Chalk all this bullshit up to the starving artist bit. I looked at my watch. Twenty more minutes to kill. So I walked more.

I came across a chicken-joint and some familiar faces. It was food or drink and I couldn’t spare a meal. I looked longer than I should have and caught the eyes of others. Co-workers who associate with me on the clock and avoid me like a leper when they aren’t getting paid. Hell, I returned the favor. They probably judged me like I judge them. Mundane little fucks.

I considered their lives. The water-cooler talk. Why did they seem so content? Why were they able to hide it so well? Money to eat greasy overfried shit couldn’t have been the reason. How could anyone stand to be so unbelievably fucking boring?

I walked away from the joint and into the grocery store to get another pack of cigarettes. I waited behind the only line open. Ahead of me was a woman who had a cart full of meat and things I could never afford. I thought of my skipped breakfast, a lunch of one dollar beef jerky and cigarettes. The dinner of canned sardines and crackers. They bagged her feast and she swiped a card without a second thought. I glanced hoping to see a food stamp logo, but no it was her credit card. Must be nice.

I got my smokes and walked outside lighting the last cigarette from the other pack. The Junkie preaching about God had found his way there. I still had some time to kill so naturally he asked if I had a cigarette. I ripped off the cellophane from the pack and offered him one.

“Thanks, man.”

“No problem.”

There was a moment of silence. I watched the town. The trucks with lift-kits, the people walking in and out of the store. Each, content with their existence. Happy with “this.” I must have stood there longer than I should have because the junkie started talking.

“You all right man?” he asked as he savored my charity smoke.

“Are any of us?”

He laughed. “I like that.”

“I’m pretty sure I stole it from somewhere. What’s your name?”

“Marcus.”

He had a weak handshake.

I asked him what he was doing out here and he told me his story. How he had lost his children and woman due to drugs and alcohol. Once you’ve heard one you’ve heard them all. The same bullshit. I wished I was drunk. He turned out to be an evangelist of a sort. Going on and on about how God had saved his life. How he was on the road to becoming a pastor or a preacher. I forget the difference. I was a Catholic once and just figured anyone who didn’t worship in a cathedral was stupid. I wasn’t far off.

“They make us practice preaching on dogs, trees, and a bush or something man. All things are from God all things need the word,” he said proudly, smoking the third cigarette I gave him. I don’t know what kept me there listening to him but I stayed. He went on about the ministry. Their mission. How back in Corpus they all still acted like they were in prison.

I’ll give him one thing. He never bothered trying to convert me. Only offered me a flyer out of habit. Those Outcry in Barrio followers only seek to convert the idiots with face tattoos and wife beaters. I was in jeans and a black button down. Probably a little too classy for the Junkie Jesus.

We said our goodbyes and I walked nowhere in particular. There was still time to kill and the bartender didn’t seem like the type to hand over anything free. So I was in no rush. I just didn’t want to be home, not yet.

A blazing sign caught my eye. One of those new electronic HD ones that had moving words and pictures. I read the words.

All welcome, come inside and be changed forever. The Lord is with us. God bless you.

I hadn’t stepped into a Church save one moment of weakness in years. I smoked and watched the sign. The words were backgrounded by pictures of smiling faces and Jesus with outstretched arms, maybe it was the junkie, maybe it was the self-loathing. The off-thought of a miracle? Hey, I’d be quite the soul to save. After all, it wasn’t that I didn’t believe in God. I just didn’t like him. For reasons that I didn’t even understand.

I thought back to a Fat Woman who claimed God would sleep with her in her dreams.

I thought back to a pretty little blonde who played the harp and liked to hear me play sad melodies on a piano. She was always on and on about God. So was her Mother. They went to a place like this and hated the Cathedral.
God’s booty call made sure that she and I split up. She married some bore who could never hope to do any better. They were married on a beach and are quite happy now. Given my current situation, she probably made the right choice.

I felt an urge to go in. Maybe divine intervention? Was God telling me to go inside? Things may be simpler with him with me. I might calm down. Find some inner peace and keep a job longer than six months. I might not walk around pissed off at everything. I knew it probably wouldn’t work but hey it was worth a shot.

Beige carpet, a glass partition, and another door sealed the noise of the outside world. Empty pews and a wooden cross stood on a stage. The lights were placed in a way to make it the focal point no matter what angle you approached. Christ was missing, they must have preferred the method and not the result. I was alone. I sat down somewhere in the middle row and waited.

In God’s House, I felt nothing. Maybe I missed the cathedral architecture. The stained glass, the velvet, the red and gold. In my empty pew, I considered reading some verse, metaphors and bullshit, but there were no bibles here, only boxes of tissue. People like to steal the bibles.

In this silence, I figured I’d hear the voice of God. Maybe this was my place? Maybe the peace I sought could be found within these walls? I looked at the cross and then at my watch. The bar would be open in twenty minutes. This wasn’t the worse way to kill time. At least I was out of the humidity and the sight of the townsfolk.

People began to arrive, often alone and never more than three at a time. They’d smile and go to an empty pew, get on their knees and begin to pray. Nobody sat near me. They all kept their distance. The whispered devotions gave way to sorrow.

I found myself surrounded by whispered prayers and quiet stifled weeping. A man walks in and went to the ground near the wall, apparently seeing himself unfit for a pew. He lowered his head on the ground and rocked himself into salvation. He whispered and wept too. I sat there one leg crossed over another, awestruck by the display.

I’d never seen such humility and dedication before. Nobody was overdressed and most of them seemed like he or she were wearing what one would normally wear to a grocery store or a dive bar. I wanted to get on my knees and pray to but had no idea what to say and figured I couldn’t work up any tears anyway. I was an awed spectator.

The man on the ground went up to the stage and grabbed an acoustic guitar, came back down and sat on the floor playing the high E string legato. He hummed and still rocked himself.

That single note mixed with tears and whispers and became a saddened orchestra. Composed by God and inspired by something that words couldn’t hope to express.

For that single infinitesimal moment stretched in time I found myself lost in their devotion. I considered these people the epitome of what a Christian should be. What all God-Fearing sheep should be. Beautiful and broken; humble and wanting. I couldn’t sense any sort of motivation other than the commitment from these people.

I should have gotten up and left. Had I done that things might be different? That glorious image would have stayed enraptured in my soul. If they got up and left without a word I promise you all, my life would have changed then and there. I could have found a home among these people. I may not have shared a single spiritual intention with them but to be among something as honest and genuine as this was so rare this day and age.

But they didn’t leave. I didn’t leave. Maybe God stayed my feet. After all, I’ve spent decades waging my own personal war against the Man.

A large man came in and the devotions stopped. Everyone stood and I remained seated. This man came up to me and smiled offering his massive hand for me to shake. I obliged. He asked my name and we exchanged a greeting. He gave me a quick briefing of the situation and gestured me along. I had walked right into a prayer group.

A welcoming fat man and his son approached me. They must have noticed my confusion and decided to take me under their wing.

“I’ll keep you between me and my boy here. You don’t need to be scared.”

He said his lips contorting into a smile that made his eyes disappear. His fat round face seemed inviting and homely. His son (who was appropriately named Ace) was dressed like an extra from Top Gun. I nodded and he smiled. Everyone gathered in a circle, there must have been around fifteen of us now.
Much like an AA meeting, the leader officiated everything. He started to speak and all illusions were shattered.

It was what you’d expect from a God-Fearing man. How the Devil was bad, how he keeps us from being here. That was all well and good. Though something about it just seemed rehearsed, every line meant to trigger some sort of reaction from his flock.

“Sister Elizabeth mentioned she had car trouble. The Devil comes in many ways. She comes from two towns over. The Devil is always trying to stop people from gathering in His name!”

Yolanda, an elderly woman in hot pants, too much makeup and not enough dignity wanted to pray for all the lonely people. Yolanda needed some dick in her life badly.

Sister Elizabeth prayed for her daughter to recognize her sinful ways. Her daughter prayed that her Mother’s prayers would be answered. I noticed the bruises on her wrists.

My fat friend prayed that the people could learn to understand the word of Jesus and wanted to thank God for the newcomer.

Ahead of me was an older white couple that looked like Woodstock. The woman with long gray stringy hair stretching down to her waist and the man, too skinny and sporting a cleft pallet. Every word he mouthed had a whistle to it.

“I just want God to help me get along with my sons. We haven’t seen our grandchildren in two years but I know that the Lord will provide and bring me back to fruition with my family.”

“The Lord has given me sight and blessed me in ways I cannot believe. He gives me strength. He gives us all Strength!”

Echoing Amens were heard followed by scattered Praise Jesus cheers.

“The lord is powerful!” Our burly leader announced afraid that the role of leader was being taken from him by Mr. Cleft Palette.

“And the lord has come to me in dreams! Told me that the holy spirit is in this place!”

Cue the canned devotion.

“Okay, Okay,” Our leader said, finally quieting the loudmouth who was currently shaking from the power of the holy spirit that was coursing through his veins. “Let us all bow our heads and close our eyes in prayer.”

They began with the Our Father. Except for Cleft Palette. He was already speaking in tongues. Not rattle snake tongues but just the same thing.
Sham-ah-la-la-Sham-Allah, whistling all the way.

After the Our Father everything erupted into chaos. The place went from a prayer group to a rioting asylum. Tongues got louder and the leader kept repeating the same shit he’d been saying from the get-go. The fat man next to me started gesticulating and saying.

Bathe the houses in the Blood of Jesus.

Bathe the Husbands and Wives in the Blood of Jesus.

Bathe the children in the Blood of Jesus.

Bathe this Church in the Blood of Jesus.

Please, Lord! Please cover us all in your Blood.

There were visions of children skipping rope drenched in stick blood. Wives prepping eggs for husbands drenched in blood. None of this shit was the least bit comforting. So I looked up and around at everyone. Now I know why they have you look down.

Their wretched little faces forced and strained all resembled constipation rather than devotion. Everyone was trying too hard to show God he or she was worthy

Cleft Palate and the Leader had gone into a full on war of whose soul was brighter than the others. Cleft Palette spoke his tongues and got louder. Leader God louder with his rehashed bullshit and Cleft Pallet convulsed harder.

Sham-allah-la-la-pu-pa-ka. . .ka . .ka. . kee-kee-kee

Lord bring them all to the light!

Sha-da-do-ra-kee-kee………..SHAM ALLAH LA ALLAH LA PU PU PEW!

Bathe them all Lord in the Blood of Jesus!

The fat man was sweating, I’ll give him that. He’s the only one was.

Meanwhile, his son had started stroking my thumb and had worked his way up to my wrist. I stole a glance at him and he was watching me. Not flirting, but just looking. I looked over to Sister Elizabeth who was gripping her daughter’s wrist tightly, while her child winced in pain. Yolanda was shaking all that extra weight and really hoping God would send her a man with a cock to just rip her in half. A junkie girl and her brother were looking down. Her brother caught me looking and gave me a look. Not that way a protective brother would, but the way a man protects the girl he molested when he was a teenager and had found God to be forgiven. Guess the Devil made him think his sister was fuckable. Lord knows I did.

All of them were wretched. Destroying the illusion of devotion I had seen before. Where were the devout humble people? What happened to the shaws and tears? What happened to my orchestra of sorrow?

There was a break in the circle. Junior had to go check his phone. I let go of fat man’s hand and walked away. Stopping at the door to see the leader looking at me. Still preaching. Mr. Cleft Palette doing everything he could to show him up.

I thought of the beating Sister Elizabeth would give her daughter when they got home. I thought of the unwanted affections the junkie’s brother would give her. I thought of Junior clearing his history after rubbing one off to gay porn and Yolanda Getting herself off to help sleep again. Mr. Cleft Pallet must have used the absence of Jesus as an excuse for treating his kids like shit. Old age must have made him lonely. He is here because he can be somebody here. He is nothing out there. None of them are.

Euripides says, “Those whom God wishes to destroy he first makes mad.” These people were done. All of them. Decaying and rotting and clinging to faith to help make sense of it all. Their ugliness was on display for everyone to see. Vanity or denial made them think that this was beautiful. Their destruction via their idol was easy to see as long as you weren’t one of them.

I stayed looking for a few more moments. The leader locked eyes with me. He knew where I was headed.