Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

by Andrea Randall

  He nods. “Yeah, she told me to remind you not to get kicked out of school because you can’t keep your vulgar thoughts to yourself.”

  I laugh, and Roland joins in. “I hate everyone,” I admit. “All the time.”

  “Oh, come on.” Roland rests his forearms on the island, a smile still overtaking his mission trip-tanned skin.

  I sigh and point to the sandwich I want on the menu. Roland calls in the order—we both order roast beef on white bread with lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise. American cheese. The white kind.

  “You didn’t have to do that…order the same thing as me,” I remark when he ends the call.

  “I order that every Sunday, Kennedy.”

  “Oh,” is the only thing I can say.

  “Are you still against people knowing how we’re related?” Roland asks, looking down at his interlaced fingers.

  “You were against telling me you were preaching today,” I say passively.

  His head tilts to the side. “It was confidential.”

  I mimic his head tilt. “You and I don’t really play by the same rules, though, do we?”

  The temperature and pressure in the room changes in an instant. I’m filled with fear, anger, and uncertainty.

  I lean back in the chair and cross my arms. “Anyway, why do you want people to know? So they don’t think you’ve been bullshitting them about your sinful past all these years?”

  Roland looks to the ceiling for a minute before searching for my eyes. I look to his coffee maker and its blinking clock.

  11:58…11:58…11:58

  “Kennedy, we’ve talked about this. A lot. You know that when I discuss the sin of my past, that I’m not talking about you.”

  I switch my gaze to him in an instant. “Aren’t you?”

  One long blink later, Roland answers, “You’re the only good from back then, Kennedy.”

  “Don’t,” I snap, sliding off the stool onto my feet. “Don’t talk to me about the goodness. You’ve never told your viewing audience that. You’ve talked about being an alcoholic and having sex before marriage. You’ve droned on and on about the regret of impregnating your college girlfriend and signing away your parental rights. But you’ve never once talked about the goodness.”

  Roland rises slowly and takes two steps toward me. “Haven’t you listened at all? You were the goodness. The goodness and joy that my sin took me away from.”

  My eyes fill with tears, blurring his concerned gaze. “Your sin caused me.”

  Roland shakes his head and places his hands on my shoulders. “God made you, Kennedy. My sin clouded my judgment and didn’t allow me to follow through with you like I should have.”

  “Stop!” I scream, stepping back. “I can’t hear about sin anymore. I’ve heard the word about nine thousand times since I set foot on campus, and I can’t hear it again.”

  I make my way for the front door and Roland follows. “Where are you going? We’ve ordered lunch.”

  Stopping with my hand on the doorknob, I turn to Roland. “I’ve lost my appetite. You preached for an hour about sin and regret. You gave the freshman class one hell of a cautionary tale, Roland. Pardon me if I don’t want to be the dog in your dog and pony show designed to keep everyone pure. No one knows we’re related, and no one will. Got it? I’m having a hard enough time fitting in without throwing you into the mix.”

  Roland steps forward, his mouth opening as if he’s going to say something. I put my hand up.

  “I didn’t get a say in whether or not you were there for me when I was a kid.” I sniff. “But I get a say now. And I say no.”

  I flee into the fresh air and slam the door behind me, my eyes instantly flickering around to see if anyone saw. God forbid an angry, tearful student leaves the local church pastor’s house in a fit of fury.

  Once I’m certain I’m alone, I walk quickly toward campus. It was a two-minute drive to Roland’s house, meaning I won’t have much of a walk to the dining hall. I wonder if my friends are still there. As the dining hall comes into view, my phone rings. Mom.

  I clear my throat. “Hello?”

  “You said you’d call me after the church service,” she says in a mock-accusing voice.

  “Sorry. It’s been a bizarre couple of days.” I slow my pace to catch my breath.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I stop. “What do you mean?”

  “Are they treating you okay?” she asks.

  “Who’s they? Mom, I’m not in prison…”

  She snorts and I lose my patience.

  “Look,” I start, “I’m really going to need your support here, okay? I put up with your comments about this place all summer and now I’m here, and it’s hard, and I need your support. Got it?” I start to cry.

  Mom’s voice turns panicky. “You’re crying.”

  “I had lunch with Roland. Well…almost had lunch.”

  “Shit,” she hisses. “Are you okay?”

  “No!” I screech through my wail. “Why? Just…why, Mom? Why all of this?” I’m making no sense, I realize, but I know she’ll understand.

  She takes a deep, loud breath. “I don’t have all the answers for you, honey.”

  “Yeah? Well who does? Roland sure doesn’t. He’s wandering around all lonely-like in this gigantic church house, ordering roast beef sandwiches and pretending like everything is kosher. Huh? Who has the d—darn answers?”

  “God?” My mom says in a questioning tone.

  “I’m being serious,” I growl.

  “I am too, honey. I’m a Christian, like Roland. Well, not exactly like that, but…” She sighs. “I don’t know, baby…maybe it’s time to pray about it?”

  I roll my eyes. I know she can’t see me, but it makes me feel better. “My roommates would tell you that’s the first thing I should have done.”

  “Look. I hate that you’re there. And it’s not just because of Roland. It’s politics and common sense and a whole lot of other things you’ve already heard from me. But…for now …pay attention. You’re on a path I don’t understand, Kennedy, but you’re strong. Take this full year and…learn something. About yourself. About them. About God. Just learn.”

  “You’re sounding…rational.” My tears dry as I notice the dramatic change in tone of her voice from yesterday when she was begging me to reconsider my enrollment. Though, her assertion that I take this year shows me that she’s still holding on to the hope that I’ll go somewhere “normal” next year.

  She chuckles. “Dan talked me off the ledge yesterday. He said he’d call you tonight, so be on the lookout, okay?”

  I start walking again, and spot Jonah moving solo down the hill from the UC. He sees me and waves. I wave back and move toward him. “I will. If you talk to him before I do, tell him I love him, k?”

  “Of course. Oh. Call your sister,” she adds quickly.

  “She can call me,” I tease. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I feel lighter after our call. Not light enough to call Roland and apologize for my outburst, about which he sent me three texts while I was on the phone with Mom, all asking if I was okay, apologizing, and asking me to call him.

  No. Don’t care. No.

  Not wanting to risk him hunting me down in some emotional storm, I text him again and assert that I need a couple of days. That I’d see him after my first week of classes when I attend my first New Life service. As planned, I text back to have the last word.

  “Hey, you.” I dial up my smile as Jonah and I meet on the sidewalk leading to the dining hall. “Just finishing up with the band?”

  Jonah nods. “Yep. They said I can start practicing with them.” His face lights up and I feel genuine excitement for him. I know nothing of this tall, godly boy, but I know the look I saw on his face as he watch the band play. Passion. And the way he interacted with them after the service. Awe.

  “That’s awesome. I’m gonna go eat.” I hitch my thumb toward the dining hall door.

 
“Me too. Can I join you?” He stuffs his hands in his pockets.

  Lucky. I need pockets.

  I nod, detecting a hint of butterflies in my belly. “Sure. That’s allowed, right? We can eat on campus together? I’m such failure at these rules!” I run a hand through my hair and leave it on the back of my neck for a second before dropping my hand to my pocket-less side.

  Jonah laughs. “We’re safe. If you were going to drag me off campus, though, we’d need a chaperone.” He holds the door open for me.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I avoid the deli station all together, settling for a salad with chicken. Jonah piles his plate with cooked vegetables, beef, and pasta. Judging by the sharp lines of the muscles running through his forearms, I’d say however he’s eating is working out just fine for him.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit much?” I ask as we sit.

  “What?”

  I stab my fork into some unsuspecting lettuce. “Where do I start? The chaperone thing, for one…”

  Jonah clasps his hands together and bows his head for a moment.

  Grace.

  I wait patiently, closing my eyes for a few seconds so he can see me when he’s finished with his pre-meal prayer. Watching Jonah pray seems too serious for me to make a crack about it. He’s praying over his food like it’s the most reverential thing in the world. Maybe it is.

  “I don’t know…” Jonah sounds reluctant as he dives into his penne marinara.

  I grin. “That’s a no.”

  Over a mouthful of pasta, Jonah seems to ponder his next words. “Okay,” he says after he swallows. “I think it depends on where you come from. Like…these rules are the same I’ve grown up with and went to school with. To me, they’re no different. Actually, I feel freer because my parents aren’t right over my shoulder making sure I follow them. Sure, there are people looking out to see that we stick to them, but it’s really up to me to make that choice.”

  “That part I get. I guess I just mean the actual rules themselves. Don’t you think an eighteen-year-old should be able to go on a date with someone without feeling like they’re twelve?”

  My question appears to strike Jonah as personal. He blushes and looks down for a moment before regaining eye contact. That’s something else I have to get used to: people actually looking at each other when they talk. It’s a maturity I didn’t really expect from a segment of the population I largely consider sheltered.

  “Some people like that. This is the first time, except for mission trips, that anyone over eighteen is away from home for a long time.”

  Yeah… Missions trips …

  He continues after a swig of ice water. “Even when you’re around a bunch of believers, there’s tons of temptations driven by hormones and the devil and everything.” He takes a deep breath and eyes me seriously. “I know, for me anyway, the rules help me make safe choices while I figure out who I want to be.”

  “You mentioned that your parents don’t like the worship team’s music?” I question as I shift in my seat.

  I don’t think Jonah feels like he’s under anyone’s thumb. He seems like he doesn’t trust himself, though. My initial reaction is that his feeling of uncertainty comes from the rules themselves, but I’m not so sure now. He seems so normal.

  “Yeah, they’re not a huge fan of rock music. At my dad’s church—”

  “He’s a pastor?”

  Jonah nods.

  Figures.

  “At my dad’s church, they just do piano or organ,” he continues without offering anything more about said church. But I guess it’s kind of normal around here. “They think rock music muddles the Message.”

  “No way,” I say with more passion than anything else I’ve said since arriving on campus. “I think it’s the opposite.”

  “Me too!” Jonah is equally animated and soft-spoken. “When you feel the music, I think it’s easier to hear the Message, you know?”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “Oddly enough, Jonah, I do. I just started listening to that kind of music over the summer and it’s brought me to tears more than eighteen years of hymns and organs ever did.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees. “You cried a lot today.”

  My eyes shoot down as I fight the overexposed feeling.

  “Sorry,” he says empathetically. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I think it’s powerful what God’s word can do. From bringing people to tears to saving lives.”

  “Saving lives,” I repeat in a near whisper.

  “Don’t you believe that? That the Word can save lives?” Jonah leans forward and his voice takes on the intense tenor of a door-to-door evangelical.

  Holy Rollers, my stepdad calls them.

  I picture a drunk and strung-out twenty-five-year-old Roland Abbot staring at his choices: another drink in one hand and a Bible in the other. Then, I see my mother a few years earlier. Twenty-one years old, working full time, and going to school part time while juggling an infant daughter. No husband.

  Where was her Savior? Where was her Jesus when she had to fight for food stamps? Was he too busy preparing the multi-million dollar way of my birth father?

  I look at Jonah and set down my fork, having lost my appetite for the second time today. His eyes are intense. Filled with belief.

  Unfaltering, one hundred percent belief.

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I just…don’t know.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We Are the Body

  My first day of classes was largely uneventful. English and US history were standard; my biology class—and its creationist slant—wasn’t a surprise. You know: God created absolutely everything under the sun and evolution is too slippery a slope and seems to contradict that. I’m not sure it does, but we’ll see if we get there this semester. Even my Old Testament class was fine. I just looked at it as another history class, though it felt like I was in Sunday school, honestly.

  “There are just so many names,” I remark to Bridgette as we trudge back to our room. She’s in three of my classes and is super excited to have a built in study group.

  In fact, lots of my floormates are in my classes, leaving me to wonder if CU designs it that way to make study groups easier. Smart, really.

  Bridgette shrugs. “At least we know the stories already. That helps a lot. I find that if I can place someone in the correct story, the details figure themselves out.”

  “Right,” I respond noncommittally.

  Walking up the stairs, Bridgette takes a breath as though she’s about to say something but she stops herself. When she does it a second time, I interject.

  “What?” I ask while adjusting the straps of my backpack on my shoulders.

  She shakes her head. “It…it’s nothing.”

  With a shy smile, she pulls her room key from her backpack and unlocks our door. Eden has returned from her classes and is already positioned at her desk, pouring over various syllabi.

  “It’s something,” I press, setting my bag on my desk.

  Eden looks up from her papers. “What’s something?”

  I point at Bridgette, who seems to be growing more flustered by the minute. Her cheeks are pink and she’s making piles of the paper on her desk.

  “This one. She was going to say something as we were walking in here, but she keeps stopping herself.”

  Eden’s eyes widen for a second, returning to normal as she looks at Bridgette. Bridgette looks back at her, extending her hands and asking, “What? I didn’t say anything.”

  The atmosphere shifts to uncomfortable rather quickly. It becomes clear they’re silently discussing their other roommate.

  “What gives?” I demand, crossing my arms and sitting on my bed.

  I start running through all possibilities in my mind. Am I messy? No. Plus, it’s only our second day here. Am I loud? No. I barely speak. Maybe that’s it. Before long, my stomach drops at a fourth, ugly possibility.

  Roland.

  I swallow hard, ra
cing through various scenarios in which they would have discovered that we’re DNA related. I bite my tongue and wait to see if one of them is going to speak.

  Finally, Eden sets down her pen and walks over to the bed, sitting gently next to me. Bridgette plunks down on the other side, and suddenly it feels like our first day in the room when they prayed for my fractured spirit due to my fatherless upbringing by an unwed mother.

  “Kennedy,” Eden starts. I’ve only known her for two days, but she’s a clear leader. Confident and well-spoken, I’m sure she’ll have no problem landing the role of a prominent pastor’s wife. Though, briefly I wonder if that will be satisfying enough for her. She’d be quite effective delivering the Message, I think before drawing my attention to her words once more.

  “Bridgette and I were talking,” she continues.

  “About me,” I state flatly.

  “Yes, but not like that,” Bridgette adds quickly. “Not bad.”

  “Okaaay,” I draw out slowly.

  Eden folds her hands in her lap. “First of all, we want to apologize for being really intense on Saturday. We didn’t mean to shame you about your dad not being around—”

  “My stepdad is my dad,” I correct.

  Eden bristles slightly, clearing her throat. “Exactly. I’m sorry for insinuating he wasn’t, or that you should be ashamed in anyway. Condemnation is no way to win hearts.”

  Whose heart is she trying to win? And for what?

  “I just…” Bridgette enters the conversation with loads of hesitation. “We weren’t aware that you weren’t…saved. At first we assumed you were like the rest of us and that you’d get our sympathy about your parent…situation—”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” With my heart racing, I stand and take a few steps forward, turning to face my roommates. “Not saved? What are you talking about? I’m a baptized Christian. Just like you.”

  Eden’s eyebrows scrunch inward. “But you said you’re Episcopalian.” Her voice slows down over the last word as if it’s in a foreign language.