Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

by Andrea Randall

  By some force of grace, Bridgette and Eden burst into laughter.

  “I know.” Eden giggles. “I just meant that I don’t want to pastor. Well, I don’t feel God wants me to pastor. I want that in the man God chooses for me…if that’s what God wants, too. I’m majoring in Music and Worship Studies, though.”

  “A perfect match,” Bridgette asserts.

  A lot of the blogs from PKs—Preachers’ Kids—I read this past summer seemed to indicate that their mothers were somehow involved in the musical portion of Jesus’ street team. This allows me to nod along with Bridgette in confidence.

  And, frankly, Eden just looks like she’d be a perfect pastor’s wife. She’s charismatic in a soft manner. And, I mean, come on—she almost got me to say Jesus in prayer. She’s good.

  “Come on,” Eden stretches as she stands, “let’s go get dinner and meet up with the guys.”

  “Guys?” I question, feeling like a late invite to the party.

  “Mmm hmm,” Bridgette nods with a mischievous smile. “All the guys.”

  The excited looks on the faces of my roommates make me blush and laugh along with them. As we near the large dining hall in the center of campus, however, my nerves take over.

  In a tiny dorm room with two champions for Jesus, I nearly lost my wits—almost spilling about my dad and my general lack of knowledge of anything they were talking about ever. How am I going to fare, I wonder, when plunked in the middle of several hundred? Of them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Strong Enough

  Upon entering Mission Hall, the largest dining hall on campus, my ears are suddenly those of superheroes. I’m not hearing a gentle hum of conversation. Rather, I seem to be picking up on nearly every conversation around me all at once.

  “If you’ve read Not a Fan, then you have to read Follow Me next. It’s, like, bringing me to this deep place in my faith that I didn’t even know existed.”

  “Have you heard Rand Collective’s new song? Brilliant, right?”

  “Man, I hope God chooses her for me.”

  The last one is said in the quietest whisper, and I only hear it because whoever said it did so just as my roommates and I walked past. I’m certain they’re asking about Eden, since she blushes, but it’s the strangest thing. The guy who said it is blushing just as much—his head down and his friends looking anywhere but at us. It’s like he really didn’t intend for Eden to hear him. I chalk this up to the biggest social difference between students here and those at any other university I applied to: relations with the opposite sex.

  Rules are strict here—as they are at most other evangelical universities—regarding such relations. Couples are not permitted to kiss on the mouth or do any sort of intimate touching on or off campus. Hand holding is the maximum skin contact, and the kiss on the cheek needs to be discreet and respectful of each person and everyone around. Whatever that means.

  We aren’t even allowed to go off campus with members of the opposite sex unless a bizarre set of requirements are met. For instance, according to the student handbook, if I want to go with a boy to dinner, we need to have a chaperone with us.

  I’m serious.

  Further, if groups of friends want to go out, they’re “strongly encouraged” to have an odd number. So, three boys and two girls, or two boys and three girls—you get the idea—I imagine to discourage that evil “pairing off” thing young people tend to do. The whole thing left my head spinning, honestly, and I decided before I got here that I was going to avoid the whole dating situation all together.

  Maybe that’s their goal.

  Once Bridgette, Eden, and I fill our plates from the salad bar, Bridgette directs us to a table smack in the center of the dining hall.

  “Here’s Silas,” she calls over her shoulder as we reach a table that clearly holds her twin.

  He’s the only redhead at the table, with has freckles across his face and arms. I watch closely to ensure she was speaking about this boy as her twin. When she gives him a family-like side hug, it’s confirmed. I love when twins don’t look alike. I know fraternal twins have as much genetic similarity as other siblings, but I still like it. I don’t bring up genetics, though, unsure what the scientific temperature at the table is.

  I mean, they believe in genes. Right?

  “Hey, guys,” Silas calls to the end of the table, “move down to make room for the ladies.”

  “Gladly,” one of them murmurs from the end of the table, causing chuckles to erupt around him.

  Eden and Bridgette shake their heads and sit. Bridgette sits next to her brother, and Eden and I sit across from them. Thankfully I only have a stranger on one side of me.

  “Shh!” Silas commands, and the table listens. “I’m sure none of us want to start out with demerits before the semester even gets underway.”

  The table goes startlingly silent.

  Ah, yes. Demerits.

  Remember all of the rules from the student handbook? Failure to follow them comes with its own disciplinary system. It isn’t three strikes and you’re out like at many other schools. In some ways, this is like God’s own little military school. Infractions are rated according to their severity and have demerits attached.

  Minor offenses carry 5-20 demerits a piece, and include things like not following the dress code, being late for activities, or failing to check in and out of campus or wherever it is you need to be.

  Major offenses will earn you 50-150 demerits each, and range from immoral or sacrilegious behavior—which includes failure to follow the dating protocols—to theft, profanity, drinking, and smoking.

  Yep. Smoking.

  Now, I’m not a smoker, and I’ve only tried about three cigarettes in my life, but reading that kind of made me want to buy a pack.

  I wouldn’t dare, though, because earning 75 demerits puts you on all kinds of restrictions ranging from not being able to participate in activities to losing leadership positions. Earning that many demerits for two semesters in a row will put you in the running for not being invited back for the next semester. They basically give you a semester to get your act together.

  For God.

  Either way, given I’m fairly certain my mouth is going to get me into enough trouble as it is, I plan to follow every rule to the T. Soon there will be enough to make me stand out without my unintentional quest to win the most demerits. There are offenses that will cause one to be suspended immediately, but given the fact I don’t intend to drink or engage in a major moral failure, I give myself a break from thinking about them.

  “Silas,” Bridgette pipes up, “these are my roommates, Eden and Kennedy.”

  Silas sets down his fork, wipes his mouth and hands with a napkin, and extends his hand across the table with a broad smile. “Eden, it’s a pleasure. Kennedy.”

  I shake his hand and feel myself smiling. He didn’t grunt a passive, “hey,” between forkfuls of mashed potatoes. He stopped what he was doing and looked me in the eye before giving a firm handshake. If the Stepford wives had Christian brothers, he would be one of them.

  I stare at him for a moment longer. His posture is impeccable, his jaw is geometry’s dream of a square, and not a hair is out of place. Really, he looks like my gay neighbor from back home, though that’s a comparison I’ll definitely be keeping to myself. Forever.

  “Nice to meet you,” I reply before going back to my salad.

  “Where are you from, Kennedy?” Silas continues his stellar manners.

  “Connecticut.” I set my fork down and take a sip of water, not wanting to eat through the introductory conversation.

  My response sends several heads at the table swiveling in my direction, including those of my roommates.

  Silas takes a deep breath. “Wow,” he says on his exhale. “That’s tough country up there.”

  I pull my eyebrows in and open my mouth to ask what he means when the girl to the left of me says, “That’s pretty liberal territory, huh?”

  Turning to her, I f
ind another beauty. Flawless dark skin and almond-shaped eyes highlight her Asian heritage, though I’m no good at pinpointing from where. Her black hair is pin straight and falls to her waist.

  “I guess,” I admit with a shrug.

  Yes is what I want to say. The state—as a whole—generally supports the rights of all of its inhabitants. Instead, I return to the salad.

  Thankfully the increasingly uncomfortable silence is broken as the empty seat next to Silas is filled and Eden bounces where she sits.

  “Jonah!” she squeals. “When did you get in?”

  “An hour ago. Glad I found you guys.” With an easy smile, Jonah high-fives the guy to his left and returns his attention to Eden. “How was the rest of your summer?”

  Rest?

  Eden tilts her head to the side as her smile grows. “It was good…” she begins, then launches into a superlative list of how she spent the latter half of her summer—soup kitchens, church duties, and the like.

  I find my eyes returning again and again to this Jonah character. His hair is short, like the rest of the guys on this campus—as required—but it seems to be a growth spurt away from an appearance infraction. His sideburns toe what I’ve read to be the acceptable length. Just long enough to run your fingers through.

  No. Nope. Stop it. You can’t have those thoughts. If they swirl in your brain long enough, Kennedy, they’ll spill out of your mouth. It’s just a matter of time.

  His eyes are brown. A honey brown. I take a second to appreciate them before returning my attention to Eden.

  Clearing my throat, I decide to start initiating conversation to avoid looking like the weird girl. More like the weird girl, anyway. “You two know each other?” My eyes bounce between the two most beautiful people at the table.

  That’s not really fair. They’re all beautiful. Alarmingly so. I begin to wonder if a life full of prayer and the absence of underage drinking, smoking, and sex has something to do with all the flawless skin and copious amounts of silky hair around me. And the smiles. Pure white smiles.

  Robe White.

  Eden interrupts my trance. “Jonah and I have gone to the same Bible camp in Kentucky from the time we were what, ten?” She tilts her chin toward Jonah, who nods as he forks some pasta into his mouth. He watches us out of the corner of his eye.

  “Anyway,” Eden continues, fluttering her hands, “once we were fifteen, we became junior counselors, and then for the last two summers—including this one—we had our own groups of campers.”

  Eden’s cheeks are pink, and Jonah appears to be forcing down a grin. I wonder if his intended major includes a pastoral track, since it seems to my secular Spidey-sense that Eden has her sights set on that boy.

  “What kind of stuff does one do at Bible camp?” I ask far too innocently, it seems. A few heads turn my way, and I’ve now captured the undivided attention of Jonah.

  Crap.

  These are the details I worked to iron out over the summer. Smile and nod about things like Bible camp and non-infant baptism… What I should have asked was something like, what was your favorite part about Bible camp? That would have hidden the open sore of my inequity a bit better.

  “You never went to Bible camp?” Eden asks in the sing-song voice she’d greeted Jonah with.

  I shrug. “Well, VBS, of course.” That answer seems acceptable, and everyone resumes eating.

  Vacation Bible School. A staple of the disciples and their children. It wasn’t a complete lie, I reassure myself. I did go to VBS at the Methodist Church.

  When I was nine.

  “Are both of you from Kentucky?” I lasso the attention of my roommate and the quiet, cute boy across from her once more.

  We didn’t really have time to cover “get to know you” things in our room before my illegitimate childhood was brought to the prayer circle

  Eden raises her hand. “I am. Dry Ridge. Jonah’s from southern Ohio, not far from the Kentucky border.”

  She’s already answering for him. I wonder if they’re together.

  I’m desperate to ask, but I’m lost as to what language to use. Do I ask if they’re courting? If they like each other? I resign to ask Eden when we’re back at the room with Bridgette. I can’t afford to embarrass myself in front of all these people.

  “Where are you guys from?” I ask Bridgette and Silas.

  “Tennessee,” they answer in unison, and then chuckle.

  Southern Ohio. Kentucky. Tennessee.

  My tablemates each represent a state—or piece of a state in Ohio’s case—cinched tightly in the nation’s Bible belt. I’m from the nation’s eyebrow.

  Pierced eyebrow.

  “You said you were from Connecticut?” Bridgette asks, seeming to sense the red-headed stepchild-ness of my placement at the table.

  I nod and smile.

  “What church do you go to up there?” Silas questions.

  I swallow a chunk of avocado, followed by some water, before I answer. “I go to St. Michael’s Episcopal Church in my town.”

  Forks drop. Not a lot, but enough that I swear I’m being punk’d. Only I know I’m not. This is real, and just one layer of stuff that separates me from them. Episcopalian kids who want to work for God go to seminaries right out of college, I think. Not schools like this.

  “Episcopalian?” the girl on my left says. “In Connecticut?” She looks to the ceiling as she seems to be connecting dots. Finally she looks back at me with a sour expression. “Didn’t the elect a gay bishop two years ago?”

  “Oh yeah,” Eden replies. “I remember that.”

  Silas shakes his head. “How could you forget? We prayed so hard for that church—that denomination…” he trails off and attends to his food.

  All I can think about is my neighbor and his right to marry his partner. They’ve been together for longer than my parents ever were and are raising four children together. If one of them were female, they’d be the perfect family in the eyes surrounding me. But because he isn’t…

  Bridgette flashes me a sympathetic smile as the rest of the table seems to take a collective deep breath. I’ll take their sympathy over the disdain I fear is lurking just around the corner.

  “So,” Eden hesitates slightly before continuing, “where are you going to go to church now?”

  Ah, yes. Another rule highlighting the new mold I must fit into.

  Students at Carter University are required to attend a fundamental church during their time as students. On and off campus. This means during weekends at home, and breaks—including summer break. A New England Episcopal church doesn’t make the cut. I don’t even know what a fundamental church actually is. Wikipedia tells me “fundamental” and “evangelical” are synonymous and derive from the Protestant church. However, the Episcopal church is somewhat grouped in with the Protestant church as well, and…well, so far my experience has shown me that I’m not under the same theological umbrella as my classmates.

  I shrug. “I’m going to talk to my advisor to see what churches in the area she recommends.” I’ve yet to meet my advisor, but assume this is an appropriate answer.

  “You should come home on break with me sometime,” Eden says brightly. “It would be so much fun and you wouldn’t have to worry about backsliding on break.”

  I scrunch my eyebrows and run my tongue along the front of my teeth. “What makes you think I’d backslide?” I ask of my cheerleader-like roommate, who seems to think that setting foot on Connecticut soil will cause me to fall into sin.

  Eden’s eyes widen as she takes a sharp breath. “No, no,” she puts her hands up in defense, “that’s not what I meant. I just meant—”

  She’s cut off by the increasingly annoying girl to my left. “So, what did you do when the church elected that gay bishop?”

  “Do?” I whip my head around. “What is there to do?” Heat creeps from my neck into my ears and cheeks as I feel like I’m on the wrong end of some firing squad.

  “Guys,” a soft, but firm voice qu
ells the table, “give her a break, huh?”

  Swallowing hard, I turn to find Jonah calming the storm.

  “She’s here now, isn’t she?” he continues. “Isn’t that all that matters?”

  “Sorry,” the still-nameless girl answers with a shrug before clearing her tray and leaving the table.

  All that matters? His voice was soothing as he said the words, but their intentions and meaning are lost on me. Still, it was enough, and the crew goes back to eating once again.

  I find myself staring at the boy with almost-shaggy hair and skin tanned from a summer in the sun. As his fork approaches his mouth, his eyes shoot to mine.

  “Thank you,” I mouth silently before averting my eyes from lips I know I shouldn’t be looking at like that.

  A second later, my eyes flicker upward again, and I find him watching me.

  “You’re welcome,” he mouths back with a lopsided grin before Silas elbows him and starts asking questions about classes, prayer groups, and who knows what else.

  I swallow hard and take a deep breath, wanting desperately to call my mom and have her turn the car around and come pick me up.

  I don’t belong here.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It is Well

  “Ladies, ladies,” our calm and sweet-looking RA says while we settle into place in the common area. She’s trying to calm all the twitters and giggles buzzing through the room.

  I’m not part of the cackle. I left my laughter somewhere between Mission Hall and my dorm. Dinner threw me for a loop and I’m still trying to come out of my outsider-haze. It’s ridiculous, I remind myself. Everyone here is nervous on some level, and the more I give in to mine, the more explaining I’ll have to do. It’s not like I worship Satan for Go—

  Sigh.

  I believe in the same God my classmates do. And, for now, that’s all that matters. I think that’s what Jonah had meant when he came to my social rescue over dinner. I’m operating under the assumption that’s what he meant, though I haven’t talked with him. Dinner ended abruptly when we realized we needed to get back to our rooms to have our first floor meetings with our RAs. Guys off in one direction. Girls in the other.