Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

by Andrea Randall

  “My name is Maggie,” the lovely brunette with hazel eyes states. “And I’ll be your RA this year. Let’s join in prayer before we get to introductions.”

  The twenty of us form a large but tight circle, joining hands and bowing heads.

  “Heavenly Father, we thank you for bringing us together tonight. Let this year be Spirit filled…” Maggie’s voice is soft and fierce as she calls us into prayer.

  My mind wanders and I find it hard to focus on the words she’s saying.

  God, I don’t know what I’m doing here, I say in my head. I feel like I need to be here, but I’m more confused than I was when I applied. I’m scared, I admit as my closed eyes fill with tears. The worst part is…I don’t even know what it is I’m scared of. Help.

  As I finish my private discussion with the Unseen, I realize Maggie has finished her prayer and the group is enjoying a moment of silence. I assume there are lots of private prayers being sent up.

  A minute later, a humming causes me to look up and find Eden with a smile on her face. Slowly, smiles spread around the circle like fire, as more voices join in the still-wordless song. Thanks to my independent study in Christian music, I recognize the tune, but bow my head to make it look like I’m praying, which will—at least temporarily—excuse my participation.

  Eden’s voice rises above the hums, as she sings in breathtaking melody:

  “It is well with my soul

  It is well, it is well with my soul.”

  She starts that verse again, a few voices in high pitch joining with her. They sing, “It is well,” and several more girls join in in a round-style, echoing my roommate and those who had joined her earlier.

  They sing in a slightly lower octave, and it’s beautiful. They repeat the verse again and again, more of our floormates joining in each time, the volume increasing along with the size of the lump in my throat.

  Soon, everyone is singing except for me. This time, it’s not because I don’t want to. I can’t. My chin falls to my chest and my lip trembles as the pressure in my throat and chest sends tears streaming down my cheeks. Then, I feel it.

  Goosebumps. “Hugs from God,” I always called them as I sat in the dark wooden pews on Sunday mornings. They don’t always come, but when they do they typically accompany tears, and immediately follow a specific prayer I’ve sent to God. The goosebumps now explode across my back and race down my arms as I fall into the tears.

  You’ll be okay.

  My eyes fly open and I look left and right for the source of the voice. Everyone is still singing. All of them. A fresh wave of goosebumps close my eyes and pull me back into the place in my heart where I’ve always found solace.

  I might not know all of the words to the songs, or the right things to say in prayer, and I certainly don’t know the right words to say to those around me but, in this moment, the one thing I do know is God is with me. The same God the women to my left and right are singing to. He’s with me, and I really will be okay.

  As the song comes to a close, I beg God silently to let this feeling of contentment and grace stay with me as the school year starts on Monday, when my knowledge and faith will be put to the test. I beg, with tears rolling down my cheeks and chin, that when I finally come face-to-face with Roland, I will know what to say.

  And that I won’t be hurt.

  “Amen,” Maggie whispers before we all squeeze hands and take our seats.

  Looking around, I see several girls wiping under their eyes, and I grin in relief that I appeared to have an appropriate emotional reaction.

  “Thank you, Eden, for that lovely addition to our prayer time,” Maggie says as she pulls a clipboard onto her lap. It doesn’t surprise me that she knows Eden’s name already.

  Typically, I’d roll my eyes at a girl like Eden—thinking her a brown-nosed snob. I’m physically incapable of thinking these things about my striking and spiritually connected roommate. Her love for God seems impassioned and genuine. She likely helped our RA with something the second she moved in, making sure to introduce herself and get connected. Not for selfish desires, I assume. But rather to create a community for herself, something I know Christians are instructed to do. Encourage fellowship.

  One thing I’ve always been horrible at.

  Stick with Eden, I think as I tuck my hair behind my ears. You need to learn from her.

  “Okay, ladies,” Maggie continues, “I assume you’ve all familiarized yourself with the student handbook?”

  Playful groans and chuckles ripple through the group. I partake in the group grumbling. Maggie makes eye contact with each one of us, seeming to allow us our group complaint.

  She chuckles and shakes her head. “Okay, okay. I’m sure most of you are familiar with these guidelines—or versions of them—from your high schools, church groups, or camps. Regardless of how you each individually might feel about them, you all know that these guidelines are designed to help the student body, as a whole, function safely and Christ-like.”

  “Also,” she continues, “you might notice that they’re called guidelines or codes. That does not mean they’re suggestions…”

  As Maggie goes into her canned spiel about demerits and other moral consequences for straying from these “guidelines,” I study her. Another beautiful CU woman. Her hair—like the hair of many around me—is past her shoulders. It’s cut into long layers that swing gracefully each time she moves her head. When she smiles, tiny lines form at the creases of her eyes, indicating she’s likely spent most of her life smiling. I find myself wanting to cling to her as well.

  The people around me certainly have magnetic personalities, and I begin to wonder why some of them, no doubt, have chased people down the street with their Bibles, spewing the horrors of a life without Christianity. If their easy smiles and calming personalities are a result of Biblical living, why not show people that?

  Maggie sets down her clipboard. “Why don’t we go around the circle and introduce ourselves. Share your name, where you’re from, your major if you have one, and a hope you have for this year.”

  A girl who identifies herself as Melanie starts. She’s from Texas, with a thick drawl to boot, and she’s an education major who hopes to grow in Christ and strengthen her relationship with her unsaved family members.

  Tough act to follow.

  Around the circle, though, most of the women state similar wishes. Growing in Christ, getting closer to God, and spreading the gospel to the unsaved are all standard hopes among the freshman class.

  I zone out for a minute, wondering what my friends from high school are talking about in their own floor meetings right now. No one else is attending a university like this. No doubt they want to join sororities, attend great parties, and have late-night study groups with their friends—boys and girls. They’ll be able to do all those things, too. I let that thought sit with me as I consider what it is I really want.

  I feel eyes on me, and I look up to find the Asian girl who questioned the sexuality of my bishop, or rather why my church would support him, staring at me. I hadn’t noticed that she was in the group, mainly because I’ve spent most of the session with my eyes closed in either prayer or avoidance. She’s watching me as the girl to her right identifies herself as Sarah. Sarah’s a music major who wants to marry a man of God and plant a church.

  A lot like Eden, though I can’t focus as the girl to Sarah’s left continues to study me. There isn’t any darkness in her eyes, but there are buckets of caution and skepticism.

  She’s on to you, I think. I quickly banish that thought from my brain as I realize I have nothing to be on to.

  Finally, I learn her name.

  “My name is Joy Martinez,” she chirps with a smile on her face.

  Naturally…

  “And,” she continues, “I’m from South Carolina. My parents adopted me—rescued me, really—from China when I was three. I’m eternally grateful that they saved me.” Joy takes a closed-eyed pause before continuing. “I’m a New Tes
tament major and I hope to spread the gospel to as many unsaved as I can while I’m on this Earth. Even while I’m here at Carter.” She clasps her hands and her eyes shoot to me as if I’m a marked target.

  I shrug off the feeling as I listen to the introductions of the girls leading up to me. There’s one girl from way north in Maine, and another from Western New York, but the rest of my floormates hail from south of the Mason-Dixon line—a geographical point I’d heard only in movies until Dan mentioned it when conversation of my attending CU sprung up in the house. It’s a real thing—an invisible set of railroad tracks—and while I don’t necessarily reside on the “wrong side,” Biblical real estate agents would beg to differ.

  “I’m Kennedy,” I say quickly when my turn comes. “I’m from Southern Connecticut, and I’m a Social Sciences major.” I leave out the bit about how my mom forced me to choose a major that would transfer easily to any other university in the United States.

  Taking a deep breath, I continue. “This year I hope to develop friendships with women who love God as much as I do.” I avoid looking at Joy. She’s suspicious of me and I don’t need to see the look that’s certainly on her face.

  This isn’t a lie, by the way. I do love God. I can’t remember a day in my life when I haven’t thought of him, or prayed, or written about him. Regardless of my church attendance or my knowledge of the Bible as a text, I have a deep respect for God, and want to learn more.

  I conclude with that. “I want to grow in my relationship with Him.”

  I do make eye contact with my roommates, who are both beaming at me. Frankly, Eden seems to be buzzing, like she’s ready to tackle me and pour as much of her knowledge about God into me as possible. Honestly, I wish she could.

  “Thanks, everyone,” Maggie says after the rest of the group has spoken. “Now, tomorrow is our first service that everyone is required to attend. Well, you’re required to attend church every Sunday,” she corrects herself, “but tomorrow is the first one, and you must attend at University Chapel.”

  Students are given the option of attending Sunday services at either the University Chapel—UC, the reverse of CU—or another local fundamental church. There seem to be plenty to choose from in a 30-mile radius. I haven’t decided where I’m going to attend, though I assume it will be a mix depending on how my relationship with Roland goes. But I’m grateful that tomorrow’s service will be at the UC so I’m not forced to choose between my birth father and someone else.

  “Who’s the welcome speaker? I didn’t see one on the website,” Bridgette asks as we all stand and side conversations spring up around us.

  Maggie’s ever-present grin widens. “Pastor Roland Abbot from New Life Church.”

  Dizzy.

  “Really?” Eden cheers. “That’s awesome! I thought I’d have to wait until next Sunday to hear him speak when I went to New Life.”

  Me, too.

  Thankfully, talk of Roland doesn’t throw me that far off balance. I trained myself in prayer, writing, and meditation to do almost anything besides flinch or falter at his name. I swallow hard before I speak.

  “Yeah,” I pretend to agree with Eden. “I thought he was on some mission trip? South America?”

  “Africa,” Maggie corrects. I knew that, but have carefully chosen the things about Pastor Abbot that I’ll actually know. “He returned yesterday in time for tomorrow’s service. This is a break from tradition for CU, as you all know. Usually an esteemed faculty is tapped to give the welcome to students. That’s why it’s been kept quiet, to keep the surprise. We were given permission from the university to share the exciting news with you all.” Her impossibly wide smile highlights her excitement and is mirrored throughout the room.

  As everyone scatters back to their rooms or wherever they’re allowed to go before curfew, I listen to the chatter. Of course the news is exciting. Roland was carefully selected to lead New Life Church and act as a spiritual liaison for CU. He’s young, attractive, passionate about Jesus, and politically cautious.

  The beginning bit sealed the deal for his current job placement. “Most fundamental churches and universities lack the finesse necessary to reach a young and struggling generation,” New Life was quoted as saying upon hiring Roland. Apparently he has this finesse, and that’s why they hired my birth father—after lengthy prayer, of course.

  Initially, the faculty and board of CU was skeptical, worried that a “liberal” pastor would come in and attempt to change doctrine and therefore undermine the principles of the university. Roland’s liberal nature, the university was assured, is in his speech and dress alone. He’s often seen preaching in jeans, t-shirts, and Converse sneakers. According to the papers, regardless of his unconventional dress, his focus on the inerrancy of the Bible is fully intact.

  Whatever the hell that means.

  Crap.

  Heck.

  Whatever.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Courageous

  “Are you feeling okay? You fell asleep like right when we got back last night.” Eden fusses over her curls while I carefully apply mascara in the bathroom. Bridgette is in the shower.

  I keep my eyes focused on my lashes. “Much better, thanks. Yesterday was crazy busy and I had a long drive.”

  Eden smiles, seemingly satisfied with my answer, then hollers over her shoulder, “Hurry up, Bridge, we can’t be late for service! Especially our first one.”

  “Don’t worry,” Bridgette calls back. “I didn’t wash my hair. I’ll be out in a sec.”

  In truth, I didn’t fall asleep before midnight, but I kept my eyes tightly closed as soon as I crawled under the covers. I didn’t want to pray with my roommates again. I didn’t want to talk about the cute boys from the dining hall, though listening to their appraisals was fun—including speculation of what was under their t-shirts. Fit or Flub? They’d never know unless they happened to catch them at the pool. Moreover, I didn’t want to talk about the excitement over hearing Pastor Roland preach tomorrow.

  Which was now today.

  I just wanted to sleep. Or try to sleep. I texted my mother around eleven, telling her we were just finishing up with our activities and church would be early, so I’d call her after my first CU service was over the next morning.

  I lied to her, which was nothing new for me. Like any teenager—well, any that I knew before yesterday—I’ve told my fair share of half-truths and white lies. But I also lied in a bigger way by not telling her about Roland preaching today.

  “You were quiet last night during the floor meeting,” Eden remarks as she dusts the apples of her cheeks with light pink blush. Just enough. Not too much.

  “I’ve never been that vocal in prayer,” I admit with a shrug. “In my church at home there are some group prayers we say during the service, but for the most part, Episcopalians are fairly private with that stuff. Corporate prayer—that’s the term, right? It’s new to me.”

  Eden smiles at her reflection before turning the sunlight of her grin toward me. Placing one manicured hand on my shoulder, she tilts her head to the side. “I thought that might be it. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it, and before you know it you’ll be adding your voice to the mix.”

  Something about the hopeful tone in her voice makes me believe her. Before setting foot on campus, I would have assumed a comment like that would make me want to throw a shoe at her. Instead, I trust her.

  “I’ve also never attended a fundamental church service. This will be my first.”

  Bridgette slides out of the shower stall fully dressed. “Well, you couldn’t get a finer introduction.” She giggles and squares herself in the mirror.

  The color in Eden’s cheeks deepens as she laughs along with Bridgette.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, zipping my makeup bag.

  “Pastor Roland,” Eden starts, then stops herself as she checks under the bathroom stalls and in the showers. “He’s cute,” she whispers.

  My mouth falls open as I shift my gaze between
my blushing roommates.

  Bridgette bites her lip. “Sorry. Did we offend you? You don’t seem that upti—”

  “No, no,” I cut her off, shaking my head. “That’s not it. I just… I wasn’t sure if you were…like…” I allow a soft chuckle before looking down. “He’s a good preacher though, too, right?” I do my best to divert attention away from my birth father’s appearance…and my lack of social grace.

  “Oh yes. Yes. Absolutely,” Eden replies with conviction. “He’s unconventional in his dress and delivery, sure, but he has a massive heart for Jesus.”

  I cough to cover up the laugh at the h-word I thought was about to follow “massive.”

  Bridgette nods. “I remember all the fluttering about when he was hired. It was crazy.”

  “Wait,” I interrupt. “Don’t you live in Tennessee? How’d you hear about a church hire here?”

  “I’ve wanted to come to Carter since I was eleven,” Bridgette answers matter-of-factly. “The school and news surrounding it have been on my radar forever.”

  Eden nods. “The summer camp I work at always has lots of CU kids, too. They talked about their excitement when he was hired. Well…most of them.”

  “Most?” I question. While I know there were mixed opinions among the adults in the church and on campus, I knew nothing about the reaction of the young people.

  Bridgette shrugs. “Just like any group of evangelicals, you’ll have a wide range of opinions.”

  You will? First I’m hearing about it.

  “Some are more legalistic than others,” she continues. “They didn’t like how he dressed, or his softened stance on certain political issues.”

  “What issues?” I didn’t know Roland to have any political opinion that I’d categorize as soft.

  “Oh, who knows.” Eden waves her hand. “Like…I don’t think he’s ever preached about homosexuality from the pulpit.”