Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

by Andrea Randall

  “She lost her shit,” Eden says dryly, causing me to gasp.

  “Eden!” I cover my mouth.

  “What?” Eden shrugs. “She did. She, like, needs meds or something.”

  “Eden…” Bridgette says cautiously.

  Eden turns to Bridgette. “Come on, Bridge. We’ve seen this stuff at camps hundreds of times over the years. Who is indecent with whom? Who pretends to pray but doesn’t, who has porn tucked in their Bible? Sometimes people need help, for whatever reason. I think she’s one of those people.”

  “Porn in their Bible?” My eyes widen.

  They nod at the apparent ugly counterculture of Christian teens.

  “But…” Eden claps her hands in an apparent attempt to refocus the conversation, “Roland—”

  I put my hand up. “What I said was true. He and my mom dated in college, and…well…the rest is kind of an eighteen-year old story. Ending right here.”

  Bridgette puts a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe starting right here,” she whispers.

  “I need your help, guys,” I admit. “With…everything.”

  I tell them about The Today Show plans and the blogs Matt showed me last night. We talk about the ones that mentioned me, and even the ones that didn’t.

  “I had no idea being a PK was such a…hot button issue,” I admit. “Do the parents know about these blogs?” I think about the possibility of Matt’s dad stumbling across the writings of Matt’s fellows, condemning the life his dad had chosen for his family. Then I wonder if Matt has his own blog.

  Eden shakes her head. “Probably not. A lot of them don’t use their real names or identifying church information. They’re angry, and a lot of other things, but they don’t want it taken out on the rest of their family. Or the congregation.”

  “So you, like, know about these?” I ask.

  Bridgette nods. “And I know lots of PKs. Sometimes it’s peachy, a wholesome life filled with prayer and all that. But most of the time…” she trails off and Eden picks up.

  “Most of the time it can be a nightmare. Especially for a teenage PK. They’re like, not allowed to question things, even though that’s what we’re supposed to do as teenagers, right?”

  I nod. “Why do you want to marry a pastor then, Eden? Why do you want to risk all of that?”

  A sad smile crosses her face. “Because it doesn’t always have to be like that. Sometimes it can be good.”

  It seems like Eden is interested in rewriting someone’s history. Then my mind flashes to Jonah and his obviously strained relationship with his dad. Is she trying to save him from his childhood by recreating a “good” pastor’s family?

  I keep all of those thoughts to myself, but take some time to share my story. My true story. I spend most of the time telling them about my time on campus this semester, and everything that’s gone on with Roland, including storming out of his house during our first attempted lunch of the school year. I end with waking up this morning to him and my mom in the same house.

  “It felt weird,” I admit, my voice growing hoarse with exhaustion and tears. “Like, I never missed him when I was growing up because he was always this mythical creature. I knew he existed, but I never saw him for real. Kind of like…God…” I resign myself to the analogy after the tooth fairy and Santa Claus fail to portray my feelings accurately.

  The tears fall fresh and hard now. “This whole semester I heard people talking about God as the ultimate father, one who desires a relationship with us even beyond that of our earthly fathers. And even though Dan has always been my dad, I just…I felt a little gypped, I guess. I don’t even know.” I rest my head on Bridgette’s shoulder. She rubs her hand up and down my back.

  Eden clears her throat. “Can I change the subject for a second and ask if you have a crush on Matt?”

  You can hear a pin drop in the silence that’s overtaken the room. I can’t help the rumble in my chest that escapes as laughter, allowing my roommates to follow. Wiping under my eyes, I sit up and draw my knees to my chest.

  “I don’t know, and I’m not even lying. With everything that’s happened the past few days, he’s definitely become my best friend here—that I can say.” My mind spins, reminding myself it really has only been a couple of days since Matt and I really connected. Not a lifetime, like it certainly feels. Eden and Bridgette look a little wounded, so I continue. “At first it was because he seemed to get me on a secular level. But it turns out he really got me.”

  “I can’t believe he knew this whole time,” Bridgette says.

  “Or that his dad was a pastor,” Eden adds.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I plead. “I’m not sure who knows and I didn’t even think it was a secret until I was telling you guys.”

  “I guess it’s not a complete secret. Jonah mentioned talking with him at the PK student group,” Eden replies nonchalantly. “I just still can’t believe it.”

  “What PK student group?”

  Bridgette gets a comical smile on her face. “The one you’re now a president of,” she teases.

  Apparently there is, in fact, a student group that meets a few times a month where kids can sit around and talk about the good, bad, and ugly of being the child of the church’s elite.

  There’s a soft knock on the door. “Kennedy,” Mom coos from the other side, “we’ve gotta get back to Roland’s. More people are starting to mill around the dorm and I swear the reporters are multiplying. Word that you were here traveled fast.”

  “I wish you guys could come with me,” I bemoan, rising to my feet.

  “How long will you have to stay there?” Bridgette asks. “You’re not leaving school, are you?”

  Her question knocks me backward. How about that? The thought of leaving CU all together hasn’t crossed my mind in the last forty-eight hours. Seems my surroundings are a lot easier to swallow when I admit who I am, even if I don’t know what to do with my freshly uncovered identity.

  “No,” I assure them, “I’m not going anywhere. I assume I’ll stay at Roland’s until after the Today interview. I’m hoping that will be Monday. Make sure you guys come to New Life on Sunday, okay?”

  “Ha!” Eden laughs. “Like everyone else on the planet?”

  Of course, if Asher knew it would be a tall fence to scale, Eden would know, too.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you guys can get in. Trust me. But promise me you’ll be there?”

  “Honestly?” Bridgette states. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  I give them one final hug before escaping my dorm like a convicted felon into the semi-safe confines of Mom’s Prius.

  “How’d it go?” she asks after we clear the parking lot.

  “Mom?” I question, ignoring hers.

  “Yes?”

  I reach my hand over to the one she always leaves on her lap while driving and grip it tightly. “I’ve got something I’ve gotta do on Sunday. At New Life. With Roland.”

  Her hand tightens, but I continue. “And I need you to be there. I don’t care if you’re backstage or out in the congregation. Just don’t leave me, okay?”

  “Never,” she whispers, her eyes unmoving from the road.

  We ride in silence back to Roland’s estate on the New Life grounds. Eyeing the clock on my phone, I note that we have roughly 36 hours until the ten o’clock Sunday service. I have much to do in those precious hours. Quickly, I send a text to Matt.

  Me: Thank you for last night. I can’t … just thanks.

  Matt: Anytime.

  I laugh and text him back.

  Me: I don’t intend to make this a habit. It’s kind of a one-time revelation.

  Matt: LOL. Have you read the Book of Revelation? It’s never *really* over.

  His words make my stomach drop, mostly because he knows more about what he’s talking about than I do.

  Me: Please come to New Life on Sunday. I’ll make sure Roland gets you in in case it’s busy.

  Matt: In case? You’re adorable. It�
��s like…I don’t know what it’s like, but it’s big.

  Me: Please?

  Matt: Of course I’ll be there. Stay in touch until then, k?

  Me: K.

  Leaning my head against the window, I think of everything else on my Pre-Sunday list. I need to talk with Roland, get the scoop on media crap from Jahara, and, most importantly…I need to call my stepfather. And soon.

  Peering from backstage at 10:05 am on the Sunday, I’m unsurprised to see a standing-room only crowd. I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt before running them through my hair. These waves need no help from the humidity of my skin.

  The worship team is in the middle of their second song, and the room is filled with electricity. While I’d like to think it’s from the music alone, I know it’s not. Roland sent an eloquent and loving letter to the New Life congregation, assuring them that services would run business-as-usual, and stated he was relying on their support and respect for privacy during this time. He went on to say that while he couldn’t control the actions of the members of the church, he would thoroughly thank them in advance for not speaking to members of the press—allowing him the time and space to do so in an appropriate manner.

  In the intervening twenty-four hours, people have seemed to listen. I spent the last day and a half in Roland’s house with Mom. Dan is traveling again, so I had to hold my conversation with him entirely by phone. I was hoping he wouldn’t be here, actually. It’s going to be hard enough as it is. Always supportive, Dan offered me nothing but strength in going forward.

  “Just guard your heart,” he said on the phone last night. A funny phrase coming from his lips, but advice I’ll take, nonetheless.

  Peering over my shoulder, I see Mom in the front row, next to Jahara. The tense, but melancholy, look on her face tells me she knows what the next step is, even though we haven’t directly talked about it. Regardless of how the past couple of days have unfolded, these next steps were ordered with my birth. And she knows that. The inevitable is coming to fruition and I hope to hurt her as little as possible.

  Roland knows I want to speak today, and I gave him a very loose outline, just so he wouldn’t feel sidelined. I have recent experience with how that feels. Obviously, he’s supportive, but I can’t help but notice a nervous stiffness in his mouth as we stand next to each other in the dim lighting of the backstage area.

  I’ve been receiving texts over the last hour from my friends as they arrived and found their seats—ones I had specially reserved—waiting for them. Craning my neck just slightly, keeping my presence back here hidden, I see them. Asher, Bridgette, Silas, Eden, Jonah, and Matt, all sitting front and center just to the left of Mom and Roland’s tight-lipped assistant. They look as nervous and uncertain as I feel, but when my eyes settle on Jonah and Matt, my purpose is renewed.

  We’re counting on you. To stand up for us.

  The plea in Matt’s otherwise rough exterior has spurred the revolution in my heart.

  “Hey,” I whisper to Roland as the third song comes to a close, “did Jesus ever call God his birth father?”

  I know the answer in my heart, I think, but should check before I open my mouth.

  Roland tilts his head to the side. “No.”

  My heart flutters a bit against my clammy skin. “K.” I take a deep breath.

  After the associate pastor utters his post-song prayer and prepares to introduce Roland, Roland reaches out through the darkness and grabs my hand, giving it a squeeze. “Are you ready for this?” he asks, as if he knows every thought in my head.

  Looking up at him, I allow a small chuckle and a smile. I shake my head. “No. Let’s go.” I take a step toward my new life, tugging on Roland’s hand slightly before letting it go.

  Roland and I cross the stage together, and I stand with my hands clasped in front of me, my head bowed as Roland gives his opening prayer.

  “Lord Jesus, thank you. The stories we would write for ourselves pale in comparison to the plans you have for us. Thank you for being our port in the storm, Lord, when the outside world seems to make no sense at all. Thank you for always making sense. Even when our flesh wants to riot…”

  I zone out in the middle of his petition to offer one in my mind of my own.

  God, please. Just…please. Don’t let me screw this up. I trust that you’ve told me to do this. That you told me through Matt that this is what needs to be done. I have an opportunity and I don’t want it, but I believe you’re asking me to take it. Also, please don’t let me throw up.

  “Amen.” Roland finishes the prayer and, as we discussed, he moves to the side, offering me the podium.

  I wonder if walking on water would feel this wobbly. I look to Mom, who offers an encouraging nod, then to my friends, who look the spectrum from confused to supportive. Matt anchors the latter end with a sly thumbs-up seemingly intended for only my eyes.

  Lifting my chin, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer number of eyes staring at me, some who have heard about me several times a year throughout most of their lives, and some who just learned of me and my existence. How Roland faces all of these people several times a week is beyond me, but I imagine when you’re not about to strip away your entire identity, the crowd can feel energizing and less like a mob.

  I clear my throat and close my eyes for a moment. Opening them, I take a deep breath. “Good morning,” I say shakily in to the mic.

  Clearing my throat again to still my vocal chords, I give it another try. In a split second, I see my entire life, through my few months on the Carter University campus flash before my eyes. Never in a million, billion years did I think I’d end up here. Saying this.

  “Good morning. My name is Kennedy Sawyer, and I am Roland Abbot’s daughter.”

  That’s it. Everything has changed.

  No longer am I simply Wendy Sawyer’s daughter. No longer am I a constant reminder of the loss of one’s youth.

  Mom’s eyes close and she wipes a tear away from her eye. Some members of the congregation nod slowly, but the strangest thing starts happening. Matt rises to his feet, clapping. Slowly at first, but as others stand and join him.

  Eventually everyone in the congregation is clapping, but not everyone is standing. Jonah and Matt are standing, as are a few other students I recognize in the crowd—who all happen to be preachers’ kids. I can only assume, looking at the random collection of standers that they’re all PKs. And they’re giving me a standing ovation.

  It turns out, God is showing me that these kids don’t need me to take a stand for them, as Matt suggested on Thursday. They’re standing up for me. For the frightening journey on which I’m about to embark. Scarier than being a liberal in King David’s court, this journey involves a whole new set of assumptions, rules, and expectations. And these new friends don’t want me to follow any of them.

  Little do most of them know, I’m not going to. This is my story. And they’re going to help me write it.

  Thank you

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  Continue reading for a preview of Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal

  Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal

  Chapter 1 Preview

  My name is Kennedy Sawyer, and I am Roland Abbot’s daughter.

  Words I never thought I’d say in front of people I’d never thought I’d speak them to. Me, a liberal Episcopalian from Connecticut acknowl
edging televangelist Roland Abbot as my birth father while standing in front of my classmates at the uber-Christian Carter University.

  The applause from my fellow students amidst their standing ovation is deafening, drowning out everything else I thought I’d planned to say. Instead, I swallow back my tears and lean into Roland’s side as he reaches the podium and puts his arm around my shoulders. I’m too paralyzed with anxiety, fear, and relief to worry about whether or not he’s going to want to hug me or kiss the top of my head, or anything like that.

  “Did you want to say anything else?” he whispers into my ear. His voice harbors an uncharacteristic tremble.

  All I can do is shake my head. Shake my head and look up into his eyes. The ones that are identical to mine. They’re brimming with tears, but his smile is anything but sad. My eyes dart in an instant to where my mother is sitting, clapping politely along with the crowd, her eyes dole out tears by the second.

  Is she mad at me?

  Sad?

  Relieved?

  I didn’t run my plans by her because I knew her opinions might get in the way of my resolve. After the three days I just endured—trying to clear mine and Roland’s name from rumors of an affair, because no one knew we were related—I needed to take this stand.

  Finally, my eyes make their way to Matt, and the rest of the friends I’ve managed to gain through the semester despite myself. But, mostly they stay on Matt. It was just recently that I learned he was a PK—a preacher’s kid—himself. An identity he seemed unwilling to accept . Until, that is, he admitted he knew who I was all along, and that he would help me in this crazy new life I’ve found myself. And, he asked in urgent return that I help him.

  Them.

  All of the PK’s who don’t feel they have a real voice. A tribute, if you will. Like The Hunger Games. And, honestly, that’s exactly what it feels like I’m stepping into.