Uncross My Heart

by Andrews

  I glanced up at the sky to make sure lightning wasn’t about to strike us both.

  Chapter Eight

  Midweek, I was teaching The Relevance of Ancient Religious Concepts in Modern Times , a course required for seminary students, and I vied with BlackBerrys hidden beneath desktops for their attention. In fact, I was quite certain that hell for this millennial generation was an eternity without text messaging and Internet access.

  “An Episcopal priest was followed to chapel by a cat,” I said, and the students smiled, accustomed to my irreverent style. “Every Sunday for twenty years the cat walked down the aisle, hopped onto the front pew, and curled up and awaited the sermon. When the priest died, his fellow clergy allowed the cat to continue to attend mass. They’d process down the aisle each Sunday, the cat walking behind them.

  “The cat grew arthritic so the priests let him walk more slowly down the aisle and then placed him on a pillow in the pew. Then the cat became so elderly that the priests had to carry the feline down the aisle on the pillow and place him in the pew. One day the cat died. The clergy continued to carry the pillow down the aisle each Sunday in his honor. One hundred years later, a curious newcomer to the church, seeing the pillow being carried down the aisle, asked about its religious significance. The priest snorted in disdain. ‘It’s for the cat.’”

  The students laughed.

  “Over time, we forget the context, and perhaps even worse, we attack those who question. The best sign I’ve ever seen in a church read, ‘God asks that you give up your soul, not your brain.’

  “Remember Mathew, Mark, Luke, and John did not write as individuals. Communities selected a prominent person’s name as author of their collective works, created to guide their own people.

  Their writings are important and sociologically relevant, but are they the Word of God, or are they the words of a people who believed in their God and wanted to improve the lives of their community? And either way, does it matter?”

  I saw a few students flinch at the idea that anything in the Bible might not matter.

  “If we could magically write down every word our parents ever said to us, we would find amazing truths, conflicting information, and downright lies. ‘Santa Claus comes down the chimney and leaves you gifts if you’re good. Santa Claus is actually your father. You need to get a college education so you can support yourself. Marry rich. It’s important to love everyone. We have to kill people when we’re at war. Life is hard. Life is good.’ Regardless of the conglomeration of information, we have a sense that our parents did their best to communicate what they believed to be true in order to help us. The Bible parents us. We will continue to analyze passages in the Bible for context.”

  Class had run long and Gladys Irons was standing in the back of the room. I wondered why. Students nervously rustled their papers and books, not wanting to be in class a minute longer than they’d signed up for.

  Roger Thurgood III stood and nearly shouted to be heard. “Do you believe anything that Christ said?” His voice quivered in demonstration of his frustration with my thoughts.

  “I believe, Roger, along with many other scholars, that only a handful of statements in the New Testament can be authenticated as the words of Christ. And of those, almost all are about love, none about hate or fear or warnings of dire things to come. We’re out of time. See you next week.” The class rose as a group and exited the room, Roger mercifully among them.

  Gladys walked to the front of the room as I erased the whiteboard.

  “Are you available this afternoon to meet with Christ Victorious, a publication trying to make sure the right person gets in the White House?”

  “Right person as in right wing?”

  “This is your chance. They need fresh blood—”

  I turned too suddenly and faced her, wanting this uptight woman to simply leave me alone. “Gladys, I’m not like you.”

  “Oh, Alexandra, we’re past that now. It’s my fault. I didn’t appreciate what you bring to the Christian movement because of your odd presentation style, but that’s exactly why you’re able—”

  “Gladys, I’m a liberal theologian. Ninety percent of the things you condemn, I don’t.”

  “I think we’re rather in line with one anoth—”

  “For starters, I don’t believe God punishes unbaptized babies, adulterers, or gay people.”

  “Well, they don’t go to heaven.”

  “I think we make our own heaven and hell for the most part, Gladys.”

  “Oh, there’s a hell as surely as you are standing here before me.

  And I believe that murderers and rapists and hideous people who do not follow God’s law most certainly go into the eternal fire.”

  “Or perhaps those people are already in an eternal fire, and when they die, the agony and pain felt by the person they raped or killed, and the agony and pain of every single human who suffered due to that person’s torture and death, are made a part of the soul of that murderer like a suit sewn to the skin that cannot be removed. And that oppressive hopelessness and pain is their ongoing hell until they can find their way out through forgiveness.”

  “What kind of talk is that? You’re saying people can find their way out of hell?”

  “Maybe.” I thrust my hands into the air as if I’d just scored a field goal. “They might have to reincarnate over time to find their way out.”

  “Reincarnate?”

  “Think about life and the afterlife in a less linear fashion, Gladys.

  Just go with me, for a moment. Free your mind. Do you think God selected thousands of people to be cavemen, die trying to discover fire, and that was their one shot at life?”

  “Well, I don’t know about cavemen. I don’t spend time thinking about cave—”

  “One guy got to be Russell Crowe and one got to be Cro-Magnon, and he froze to death, and that was his only shot at being a human.

  Luck of the draw. Too bad, cave guy. Makes no sense, does it? Neither does the idea that if you love someone of the same gender, you go to hell.”“Alexandra, the way you think.”

  “You believe that if a woman loves—let’s say kisses, or sleeps with—another woman, she goes to hell?”

  “I believe it is a very strong possibility, if she does it repeatedly and does not repent.”

  “Oh, Gladys, Gladys, Gladys—”

  “The Lord said it is an abomination and those who—”

  Unable to contain myself, I grabbed Gladys’s thick head in my hands and said, “I’m going to share the secret my neighbor shared with me.” I kissed her squarely on the mouth. “See you in hell.” I said it cheerily.

  Gladys yanked herself free of my grasp. Her eyeballs jumped out at me as if on miniature Slinkys, and she huffed loudly several times.

  With the back of her hand, she wiped her lips as if I’d pressed dog manure on them. “You are not fit to wear the robes of Christ.” She ran from my classroom, and I flung back my head and stared up at the ceiling. Probably right, I thought.

  * * *

  That night I sat cross-legged on the floor by the small fireplace in my farmhouse, talking morosely on the phone with Dennis, Ketch resting at my side.

  “I wish I could have been there when you kissed her. I’ll bet you she hasn’t been kissed in decades. Of course, you shouldn’t have done it.” He paused. “What did kissing her feel like? She looks like she has rough lips.”

  “It wasn’t that kind of kiss. It was a let-me-punch-your-ticket-to-hell kind of kiss.”

  “You know she’ll go to Hightower.”

  “No, she could never confess to anyone that she was kissed, which makes me feel like a sexual terrorist. I jumped her and she has no way to tell anyone about it. I need to apologize to her.” I took another sip from an old brandy snifter my grandmother only took down off the shelf for special occasions and wondered if she would have felt this particular evening qualified.

  “Probably a good idea. How do you intend to phrase it?”

>   “Gladys, I’m sorry I…I don’t know. It will just have to come to me.”

  “Dr. Westbrooke, you need to think about one of two things.” His tone was teasing, but somehow I knew the mellow lilt was merely to cover the fact that he really meant what he was about to say. “Either button up your behavior, or get yourself to a seminary that is more liberal and will appreciate and embrace you. There are some, you know.”

  “I love Claridge.”

  “But priests can’t be mashers.”

  “What should I do?”

  “You might try praying for inner peace,” he said kindly.

  * * *

  I hung up and took my brandy and stood for a moment on the back porch, gazing out at the field dotted with fireflies twinkling under a harvest moon. The horses came up to greet me, and I walked down the back steps and a few yards farther to the slatted wooden gate and lifted the latch, letting myself into their pasture.

  They followed me in a slow processional southward, where a large stone altar rose out of the high grass. Field stones, really, ingeniously propped up like Stonehenge by my grandfather years ago to allow one of his sick horses to eat and drink without bending over. I sat my brandy on the ledge at shoulder height and placed my palms down on the jagged stone top and bowed my head. The horses came up on either side of me and stood quietly breathing warm air on my shoulders.

  Something in these animals took me back in time to a place where I felt I had fought more tangible battles. A place where people had the decency to “run you through” rather than “run you ragged,” where the horses and I had lived much closer to one another, their large spirits supporting and protecting me. These bizarre thoughts comforted rather than disturbed me—perhaps a sure sign of madness. Nonetheless, in times of joy or sorrow I often sought out the horses. Tonight they seemed to bow their heads with me in love and respect as I prayed.

  “Dear God, I am not the best priest you have ever had in your following. I do more things wrong than right. But your love is infinite and for that I am eternally grateful. I know most people think I should be sorry for what I say or do or believe. But deep down, I cannot believe that this religion we have is what you want. Guide me, Lord. ” I held my brandy glass up as if it were a chalice and then drank as Ghostie nuzzled my neck.

  Chapter Nine

  I was wrong about Gladys’s reticence to report being kissed.

  She’d fingered me without hesitation. When Hightower summoned me to his office the next day, I thought it was on a student matter and so I was caught off guard as he perspired and paced and then veritably shouted, “Did you kiss Gladys Irons?”

  My career flashed before me along with the irony that in this theological kingdom I might be forgiven a lie, a slap, a curse, but a kiss was betrayal.

  I refrained from answering Hightower’s question by artfully rephrasing it. “If I were to kiss a woman, would you imagine that it would be Gladys Irons?”

  His visage sagged and he broke eye contact. It was obvious he could not imagine it. I could see relief in the slack of his shoulders, and I wasn’t proud of myself for having so easily escaped.

  “Holy Mother of God, Alexandra, you’ve got to draw a ceasefire with Gladys Irons. You know she’s the most vocal, tediously religious tenured professor on this campus, and I do not want to have to listen to her discuss your unsuitability as a professor. First you irritate Thurgood III and now Gladys. I am beginning to wonder if this is the right venue for you. Hmm?” His eyebrows elevated about an inch and froze there as he sought an answer from me, but I didn’t know what to say. I was as tired of defending my actions as he was of experiencing them secondhand.

  “You will make peace. Once and for all.” He turned his back on me as if I had left the room. Seconds later I obliged him, going out into the lobby where Eleonor sat at her post.

  “Girl, you’re startin’ to rival Vivienne Wilde for makin’ his hair stand on end, and he doesn’t have that much.”

  “Eleonor, do you believe any two adults go to hell for consensual sex?”“Honey, some of the consensual sex I’ve had was hell. No need to travel.”

  I grinned at her. “You’re the smartest person on this campus.”

  * * *

  I walked across the commons toward the flat, low building housing the cafeteria. Off to the sides of this large, foul-smelling eatery, a row of larger rooms existed for students and faculty to reserve.

  “It’s the best way,” Dennis said, shepherding me along as one would an errant child. We turned down the long cement walkway that would end at a single glass door smeared with remnants of finger foods.

  “You’ll go, talk to her, ask forgiveness, and it’s done. Otherwise, she’ll talk about you all over campus.”

  “Kissing her was simply my frustrated alternative to driving a pencil through her head for being so maddeningly shut down. Imagine my having to apologize for kissing her to make a theological point.

  What century are we in?”

  “So when do you see Vivienne Wilde? Not that I want to bring up the other woman in your complicated life.”

  “Already saw her.”

  “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “She was at the conference in San Francisco and actually had the gall to ask me a question from the aisle.”

  “It’s very strange that she was there. What did she ask?”

  “If I personally believed Jesus was celibate.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said probably not.”

  “That’s the wrong answer, you know, in case you care. But of course, why would you care? You’re busy kissing Gladys Irons to make a theological point.” We halted in front of the cafeteria entrance.

  “Okay, you’re on your own now. Report back to Daddy after you’ve apologized.”

  “I hate low ceilings,” I said as I opened the outer door and thought about what it must be like to be in a bastion of liberal theologians.

  Almost like going to heaven. Instead, here I was in this eclectic mix of God-fearing sects all struggling to brainwash one another. I never used to feel this way. What’s changed?

  Moving down the interior hallway toward the first meeting room, I opened the door and immediately felt I could reach up and touch the big dirty-white tiles overhead, whose popcornlike topography surrounded fluorescent lighting. Gladys and her group were holding their prayer breakfast, and I quietly entered and stepped back against the wall.

  Gladys spotted me and her shoulders noticeably jerked back as if the devil himself had entered the room and was about to stick a fork in her. She slammed her chin down to her neck like a nervous chicken and no doubt prayed to God I wouldn’t attack her again.

  People beside her stood in front of their folding chairs, arms in the air, swaying back and forth like fans in football bleachers executing the wave. I noted Dennis had fallen by the wayside, his encouragement running out at the door.

  An older man was leading the prayer but others were chiming in, so it was hard to tell who was talking to God and who was simply interrupting with “Amen, brother. Tell it to Jesus. Washed in the blood.”

  I noticed immediately Roger Thurgood III was in the front row, looking pompously pious, and I wondered if I had some sort of homing device strapped to my ankle that drew me to Roger.

  A young, trim man in a tight-fitting shiny blue suit leapt up and bounded to the podium. I recognized him as Bryan Bench, one of those students who never had an unhappy day because his happiness was manufactured, imported, and installed like parts from China. I suspected I could drive over Bryan with a four-wheeler and he would jump up clutching his Bible and shout, “Praise the Lord, it’s a glorious day.” Nothing wrong with that, if only I felt he was sincere. I mentally smacked myself for cynicism.

  “Hold up the Good Book,” Bryan shouted to everyone gathered before him, and I contemplated how the Good Book had relegated all other books to “Bad Books.” “Today is a day to rejoice.”

  I had never heard the word �
�rejoice” given quite so many syllables.

  It sounded something like “re-joy-us” and made me think maybe that was the idea—to put joy back in us. Maybe I was being too hard on Bryan and I should accept his hard-core religion as a lesson in diversity, so I settled into my straight-back chair and listened.

  But my tolerance was short-lived as Bryan hissed out words in crazy crusader-speak that was just short of born-again rap. “Je-ya-sus saaay-uvs-us. His mother Maaay-reee ble-yus-sus usss!” I mentally snapped. Why can’t he say Jesus like a regular person? Does Bryan go to a restaurant and place his name on the waiting list saying, “My na-yame isss Bryyyaaan Beyuuunch!”

  Words were my hot button. The current inability of anyone under thirty to differentiate vowel sounds drove me mad. Simple words like

  “mail” were pronounced “mel,” leaving people like me insane and confused when hearing them strung together, as in a tall dark mel was seen walking past a windmel carrying a postcard from today’s mel to Mel Blanchard, a melman. I called it mel-hell and everyone was headed there.

  I must have wandered off in thought because the people around me were stirring out of their chair rows, chatting with one another.

  I moved quickly toward Gladys, who recoiled like a drunk snake, sidewinding away from me, but I blocked the aisle between the row of folding chairs, making it virtually impossible for her to escape. She was hanging on Bryan’s arm, telling him what a good job he’d done. I echoed her sentiment at the first opportunity and he beamed.

  “Well, thank you. The Lord provides the Word, I am but a mouthpiece, and I have benefitted from you, Reverend.” He turned the compliment around, and it was that very skill and his big broad smile that would most likely make his future church the fount of everlasting funding. “What brings you here?”