Red Cross. This is a national emergency, so the best thing any of us can do right now is stay put and stick together and, if you can, give blood.”
I can do that, I think. Though it hardly seems like enough.
L ATER THAT NIGHT , I climb in the passenger seat of Sofia’s car. Minutes later we’re pulling up to a small church in a residential neighborhood. T HE U NITARIAN C HURCH OF S TATEN I SLAND , the sign on the front lawn reads. Sofia catches me looking at the sign andquickly explains, “The International Church of Christ doesn’t believe in owning buildings, so we rent from the Unitarian Church.” Sounds fair enough. I nod my head and take in the rest of my surroundings. The building is quaint and cottage-like, with a brown brick exterior and antique-looking stained-glass windows. I watch as people of all ages and colors gather outside, greeting one another with loving embraces. A rush of warmth softens my insides, and I happily surrender myself into their arms, hugging and even kissing on the cheek some of these beautiful strangers.
The sounds of singing and clapping draw us into the sanctuary. “Soldiers of Christ, arise, and put on your armor . . . ” The tiny church barely holds the congregation. Sofia guides me through the bustling bodies to an open pew. Sandra with the bright blue eyes is standing at the front of the room, leading songs with a group of singers, their voices blending and harmonizing in angelic accord. She sees me in the crowd and smiles. I smile back as I clap and sway with the others, basking in the tightly knit glow.
The music dies down, and the singers find their seats. A young man steps into the hollow of the pulpit. He is tall and good-looking, with commanding eyes and a disarming smile. He’s dressed in street clothes, and he carries himself like someone who spends a lot of time on stage. “Let’s bow our heads and pray,” he says. “Father God, be with us now . . . ”
His words muddle and melt in my ears. “That’s Mike,” Sofia leans in and whispers when he finishes praying, “the minister.” He’s unlike any preacher I’ve ever seen, and his intensity captivates me. “When I saw those towers go down, something inside of me broke,” he’s saying. “All those souls, all those people suffering and dying without knowing the truth. It’s time for us to wake up. . . . God needs us now more than ever—to step up and spread Jesus’s message, totake up the sword of truth and the helmet of salvation. To seek and save the lost. . . . ” His emphatic proclamations hit the spot. I wipe my eyes, discreetly. My body is quivering.
Sofia wraps her arm around me. The trembling subsides. We lock eyes. Hers are soft, brimming with tears, brilliant flecks of green glimmering in her dark brown irises. She squeezes my hand. The music is starting up again. “I prayed, yes I prayed. I prayed, oh I prayed. I prayed, yes I prayed until I found the Lord. My soul just couldn’t be contented . . . ” The voices of the congregation swell with conviction as they sing. The lyrics are simple, so I join in.
In this moment, as my voice merges with the masses until I can hear it no longer, I am clueless as to the eventual significance of this small act. There’s no way for me to know that in becoming one with this group of believers, I am signing up to spend six years of my young adult life in a fantasy land where God speaks through microphones using seemingly perfect preachers and their wives to persuade their devotees to do as they’re told. Or that I will soon be challenged to cut myself off from my friends and family who do not agree with my new ways of thinking and being and believing; or that in the not-too-far-off future I will marry a man I’ve never even kissed—all for the sake of upholding the sanctity of the way, the truth, and the life of which Jesus allegedly spoke.
No, right now, all I know is I believe —I believe God is with me, and that he led me here. I believe I
I can do that, I think. Though it hardly seems like enough.
L ATER THAT NIGHT , I climb in the passenger seat of Sofia’s car. Minutes later we’re pulling up to a small church in a residential neighborhood. T HE U NITARIAN C HURCH OF S TATEN I SLAND , the sign on the front lawn reads. Sofia catches me looking at the sign andquickly explains, “The International Church of Christ doesn’t believe in owning buildings, so we rent from the Unitarian Church.” Sounds fair enough. I nod my head and take in the rest of my surroundings. The building is quaint and cottage-like, with a brown brick exterior and antique-looking stained-glass windows. I watch as people of all ages and colors gather outside, greeting one another with loving embraces. A rush of warmth softens my insides, and I happily surrender myself into their arms, hugging and even kissing on the cheek some of these beautiful strangers.
The sounds of singing and clapping draw us into the sanctuary. “Soldiers of Christ, arise, and put on your armor . . . ” The tiny church barely holds the congregation. Sofia guides me through the bustling bodies to an open pew. Sandra with the bright blue eyes is standing at the front of the room, leading songs with a group of singers, their voices blending and harmonizing in angelic accord. She sees me in the crowd and smiles. I smile back as I clap and sway with the others, basking in the tightly knit glow.
The music dies down, and the singers find their seats. A young man steps into the hollow of the pulpit. He is tall and good-looking, with commanding eyes and a disarming smile. He’s dressed in street clothes, and he carries himself like someone who spends a lot of time on stage. “Let’s bow our heads and pray,” he says. “Father God, be with us now . . . ”
His words muddle and melt in my ears. “That’s Mike,” Sofia leans in and whispers when he finishes praying, “the minister.” He’s unlike any preacher I’ve ever seen, and his intensity captivates me. “When I saw those towers go down, something inside of me broke,” he’s saying. “All those souls, all those people suffering and dying without knowing the truth. It’s time for us to wake up. . . . God needs us now more than ever—to step up and spread Jesus’s message, totake up the sword of truth and the helmet of salvation. To seek and save the lost. . . . ” His emphatic proclamations hit the spot. I wipe my eyes, discreetly. My body is quivering.
Sofia wraps her arm around me. The trembling subsides. We lock eyes. Hers are soft, brimming with tears, brilliant flecks of green glimmering in her dark brown irises. She squeezes my hand. The music is starting up again. “I prayed, yes I prayed. I prayed, oh I prayed. I prayed, yes I prayed until I found the Lord. My soul just couldn’t be contented . . . ” The voices of the congregation swell with conviction as they sing. The lyrics are simple, so I join in.
In this moment, as my voice merges with the masses until I can hear it no longer, I am clueless as to the eventual significance of this small act. There’s no way for me to know that in becoming one with this group of believers, I am signing up to spend six years of my young adult life in a fantasy land where God speaks through microphones using seemingly perfect preachers and their wives to persuade their devotees to do as they’re told. Or that I will soon be challenged to cut myself off from my friends and family who do not agree with my new ways of thinking and being and believing; or that in the not-too-far-off future I will marry a man I’ve never even kissed—all for the sake of upholding the sanctity of the way, the truth, and the life of which Jesus allegedly spoke.
No, right now, all I know is I believe —I believe God is with me, and that he led me here. I believe I
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