by Sosie Frost
“Easier to escape the church that way.”
“This isn’t about the church.” Cassi gestured to the girls. “They’re kids, V. You need to get used to them again.”
It wasn’t about being comfortable around children.
It was about living with the memories.
The guilt.
Today, the sun was shining. The winds were calm. The day was cold.
It didn’t matter.
When I looked at Tabby, I saw her again. And it was like I was there once more. Trapped in the rubble. Soaked with rain. Haunted by screams.
It wasn’t the sadness that I feared. Or the guilt. Or even the church.
It was the hatred. The unrelenting, unquestioning, absolute hatred that burned me in my own damned hellfire. It’d taken me a year to claw an escape from that torment. I wouldn’t lose myself to that darkness again.
Cassi wouldn’t understand. And that was fine. I had no words to explain it. Pain, suffering, and cruelty thrived in our world. No holy book gave me any answers, and no Christmas pageant would ever grant me peace.
But my family deserved a little innocence. No sense shattering their faith because I’d been blessed to learn the miserable truth.
That endless, eternal nothingness was real.
And the void was all that protected us from the rage and sorrow of our Godforsaken life.
I drove myself to the parish, but I owed Pastor Miley a sympathetic ear, nothing more. I’d offer my advice and then leave.
Hopefully for the last time.
Easier said than done in a place like Butterpond. The church was as much a part of the community as the perpetual rivalry between the historical society and the preservation club, the migratory geese invading the town square, and the frantic rush for toilet paper and canned soup on double coupon day at Barlow’s Market.
But that was the beauty of Butterpond. The town thrived on a steady diet of gossip, outrage, and that little bit of faith that cured all ails and forgave all sins each major holiday. Folks met on Sunday to complain about the grievances of their week, and when God wouldn’t hear their pleas, they went to the next best place—the monthly municipal meeting. The Lord offered vengeance, the government citations, and a ramshackle peace warmed the town in the blessings of smug condescension.
I left my car in the church’s freshly paved lot. No more walking for forty years through the parking desert that was Butterpond’s on-street availability, and no more visits from Michael and Gabriel, the two tire-popping potholes that had eroded away the last lot.
When was the last time I’d stepped inside my church? A year now? Two?
I’d once lived in its halls. Worked and preached, loved and worshipped. Couldn’t imagine a life without it.
Now I couldn’t imagine taking the step inside.
I hardly recognized my church. The renovations had transformed the old, outdated building into modern brick and smoothed stone. The rebuild had used some of the old timbers where they could, but most of the building needed to be replaced. The bell. The shattered stained-glass windows.
The roof was new. Had to be. Most of it had collapsed on the congregation during the storm.
The new Butterpond Community Church stood proud, brand-new and spotless.
But it didn’t feel like my church. This one was…empty.
Or maybe that was me.
But I expected more than un-raked leaves in the yard, and a nativity scene featuring a milk jug in its manger. Some prankster had rearranged the letters on the marquee, inviting Jesus to a very unorthodox location, but that was nothing new for the church. At least the vandals’ spelling had markedly improved.
Cassi followed, the kids already rushing forward to enter the church. I sidestepped the girls, swiping a littered soda can from the sidewalk. A second rested in a bush. A leftover sandwich container blew across the steps. I gathered them all, but Cassi batted the trash from my hand and squeezed my arm.
“Pick your battles, V. It gets much worse.”
She opened the doors.
The rumors were true.
Butterpond Community Church prided itself on quiet contemplation, clean floors, and plenty of room for bingo. Maybe the hymnals were missing pages, and most of the pews had lost their cushions. And yes, the sermons during Easter and Christmas miraculously attracted more of an otherwise MIA congregation. But when I’d preached, one truth remained constant.
The crucifix behind the altar had never once caught on fire.
Chaos descended upon the chapel. Two dozen pageant performers shouted as the Christmas tree, doused in tinsel and very old lights, flickered, sparked, and then burned to a cinder. The flames leapt from one kindling to the next, feasting upon the crucifix attached to the wall.
Two men in shepherds’ costumes beat out the fire with their prop hooks and turbans.
This did nothing but fan the flame.
Raymond Adamski, a good enough fellow when sober, and the town’s Joseph for the past fifteen years, took the initiative. He lobbed his water bottle at the crucifix, then shouted various curses as the vodka did very little to stem the blaze.
Fortunately, the fire was content with its blasphemy, and it hadn’t spread. This allowed the preschool instructors to continue conducting the children in song.
“Jesus loves me this I know…”
Raymond attempted to remain in character, preaching to the congregation with a slurred drawl.
“The Bible never said Joseph caught on fire,” he said.
He ripped his costume off before the smoldering edge nipped at his skin. The material erupted in flames, and he cast it upon the altar.
Naked, drunk, and in a state of acceptable panic, Raymond sprinted through the church and attempted to pat out his chest hair.
“We’ve been forsaken!”
The conductor instructed the preschoolers to cover their eyes as they continued their song. “For the Bible tells me so!”
Joseph bolted across the stage, tumbling into a stack of meticulously duct-taped cardboard boxes, representing either the manger, the inn, or a very crude depiction of Ironfield’s lower district complete…with a familiar strip club.
A place a man of God shouldn’t have recognized.
“Yes, Jesus loves me!”
One of the shepherds pitched Joseph’s flaming robes into the garbage can. Unfortunately, the metal bin had acted as the baby Jesus’s bed while on stage. The dried hay inside immediately caught. One of the Magi rushed onto the stage with a collection of sports drinks.
The real Jesus could walk on water. The Bratz doll representing Jesus could not. The plastic messiah was first melted to the side of the waste bucket before getting water-boarded by the Magi.
But the fire was out.
Unfortunately. Jesus had liquefied. The only working set of stage lights cracked under the weight of the fallen Christmas tree. And Joseph hid his nudity behind an inflatable sheep, utilizing the wrong end to hide his mistle and toe.
“Yes, Jesus loves me!”
“What…” Words escaped me. I might have spoken in tongues if I hadn’t swallowed mine. I’d taken two steps into the church before Hell literally arrived on Earth, spawned through the portal left by Joseph’s flaming trousers. “What is going on?”
Cassi instructed the kids to look away as a naked Joseph shimmied into the only available costume on stage.
The Virgin Mary’s dress.
“Doesn’t seem that bad today,” Cassi said. “Wonder why Miley’s so upset.”
Not that bad?
My church was on fire!
I rubbed my face. Aside from the fires, vodka, and naked biblical figures, my church seemed to be the same. But the Christmas pageant didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hell. The Nativity scene used a garbage can for the manger, a mop for a wise man, and I was pretty certain they’d offered baby Jesus marijuana instead of frankincense.
“Jesus loves me this I know…”
Only the preschoolers sang. The
choir was not on stage. In fact, most of its participants were in the pews, their white robes tethered to sticks which they waived in solidarity towards Pastor Miley. A banner stretched across the aisle.
Starving for Songs!
I pointed.
Cassi nodded. “The choir is on hunger strike.”
“What?”
“A lot has changed since you’ve been gone, V.”
“Dietary habits?”
My sister arched her eyebrows. “You still have no idea how valuable you are to this church, do you? Without you, the pageant is a nightmare. We’ve lost our second Christmas tree, and our little drummer boy in the front row just uploaded his footage of the crucifix fire to YouTube.”
“The kids—”
“Don’t worry. The children have seen worse than Joseph’s…carpentry tools.” She sighed. “The biggest problem is that the pageant is now a town-wide event. Any interested party may audition, even those outside the church. Apparently, that’s how it’s done now.”
“That’s how what is done?”
“Pageantry. Shows. Butterpond has gone Broadway.”
I’d always developed unique tension headaches from the church—took the shape of a cross. Down the center of my forehead and across the brow line. At least that hadn’t changed.
“Face it, V. The Nativity scene is a relic of the past.”
“That’s always been the charm of it.”
“Well, Butterpond isn’t looking for charm anymore. They’re looking for mass appeal. The pageant is the best way to spread the message. Pastor Miley wanted a way to reach hundreds of people. Maybe even thousands.”
“What’s he doing? Putting a star in the sky and hoping it’ll lead people to the church?”
She snickered. “We don’t need a star when a spotlight does the trick. Miley is planning the biggest, most elaborate, most expensive, most spectacular Christmas pageant in the state.”
“In Butterpond.”
“Yes, Jesus loves me!”
My sister grinned. “We have plenty of local talent.”
If I’d had any faith left, I would’ve lost it right there. “You’re kidding.”
“A lot of things have happened outside of the basement, Varius. Maybe you should join the world once in a while. Take a look around. Butterpond is evolving.”
Butterpond never evolved. This was a town that outlawed birdfeeders, instituted strip searches before bridge games to dissuade cheating, and denied double-coupons to vegans. And even after the same ACLU lawyer presented the same slideshow multiple times at the municipal meetings, Butterpond dug its heels in deep—six feet deep.
And they wanted to change the Christmas pageant?
Never thought I’d experience a disaster of Biblical proportions. Apparently, neither did Pastor Miley.
My ministerial replacement’s panicked cry echoed from the stage.
“I quit!” Miley’s proclamation rocked the sanctuary. “I quit! I’ve had it! This is over!”
The rehearsal silenced. Miley pointed a trembling, accusatory finger around the chapel.
“Is this the respect I get as a man of God?” His voice cracked. “What have I done to deserve this? Are you people incapable of love? Kindness? Talent?”
The headache pulsed harder.
When I’d quit the ministry, I’d never imagined the town would’ve turned against my replacement. A man of the cloth was still a man of the cloth, regardless who preached at the pulpit. But this substitute shepherd had wandered into a pack of wolves masquerading as sheep. And it was my fault.
I’d abandoned the congregation when they needed a leader the most, when tragedy had stolen so much and left so many with questions I couldn’t answer. Pastor Miley was thrust into an untenable situation, and it was a miracle he’d lasted for so long.
Especially after he joined the historical society’s efforts to turn Sawyer County dry. Miley had expected to win hearts and minds with a Bible and no booze. Rookie mistake.
Miley called to me. “Varius, thank God! You tell them! Even Job had his limits!”
I hadn’t wanted to be spotted. Too late now. Heads turned. The cast greeted me with a soft cheer. Jesus didn’t pick favorites, but his people sure did.
Miley groaned, thrusting a finger towards the cast. “Do you know why Jesus died for three days?”
I hoped my congregation knew the answer, but even my own brothers thought the Messiah’s name was Jared. It was best not to put anybody on the spot.
“Jesus died to get away from you people!”
I caught Miley before he stormed out of the chapel, but it was too late to save a hand-carved candelabra from his frustrated boot. No real loss—the piece had been donated by Tidus as penance for a prank involving holy water, capsaicin, and the mayor. Some events were best left forgotten.
Fortunately, Miley was just the sort of forgetful minister Butterpond needed. He was an older man on the verge of senility. Probably why he came out of retirement to take the post. But even his patience had limits. Miley’s panic attack threatened more than just the tie he struggled to rip from his neck. His wild hair stood on end, teased by repeated tugs of his fingers.
He’d gone gray after the Halloween Carnival…and its capsized hayride. Fortunately, Sheriff Samson had rescued all the kids who fell into the river, and none of the parents got upset until the Pumpkin Chunkin’ fiasco that nearly blinded Mr. Wilcox. Consequently, the church sponsored new legislation restricting the number of pumpkins, gourds, and squashes permitted within city lines. After that, Miley was considered a hero.
Not anymore.
The poor man practically shook as he paced, leaving a trail of sheet music in his wake. Two pages from O Holy Night.
One from Copacabana.
The production was in trouble.
I waited for Cassi to give me a thumbs-up over the extinguished embers of the Christmas tree. One problem resolved. I pulled Miley to the lobby and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“What are you doing with this pageant, Miley?” I asked.
“What am I doing to it? The question should be, what’s it doing to me?”
“That bad?”
“I’ve been a minister for forty-five years. In that span of time, I’ve developed hypertension, IBS, Easter-onset asthma, an allergy to sandalwood, and a rather crippling, thoroughly inconvenient case of erectile dysfunction.”
And then I knew exactly what Santa could bring the poor guy. “I understand the job is…frustrating.”
“Frustrating is taking two of those little blue pills on my anniversary date with my wife. Frustrating is getting called to an emergency recital that ends in yet another fire. Frustrating is not having nearly enough sheet music to walk past the preschoolers with a clear conscience!”
He positioned the sheet music to The Bell That Couldn’t Jingle over his trousers.
And I’d really hoped it was just a candy cane in his pocket.
“Why don’t we…sit?” I gestured to an empty office. “Please.”
Miley ignored me. “Do you think baby Jesus would have preferred a tap dance over the little drummer boy’s song?”
He had a habit of posing theoretical, contemplative questions for the flock. A way for them to understand the teachings and messages with their own interpretations. It seldom worked.
“I’m…not sure if baby Jesus is partial to any particular style of music,” I said.
“Is that so? Well, our pageant coordinator…” Miley’s eye twitched as he mentioned his assistant. “She believes that the timeless story of the little boy drumming for our Lord and Savior can be interpreted.” His eyelid fluttered once more, but the corner of his mouth also jerked. “She believes she can replicate the wholesome, innocent exuberance of the little drummer boy’s song with a tap dance number presented by Ms. Julie’s grade school dance squad.”
News to me. “I thought Julie only taught jazz?”
Miley scowled. “Varius, the pageant is a disaster. There’s nothing
traditional about the show. It is a corruption of every song, dance, and routine Butterpond Community Church has ever presented. And the coordinator…” This time his voice broke. “She has decided to make this a show-stopping, toe-tapping, heart-pounding extravaganza of singing, dancing, and talent.”
“But Butterpond has no singers, dancers, or talent.”
“And it’s your problem now.”
Miley marched toward the door. I didn’t let him escape.
“Look, I’m only here because I’ve got enough missed calls on my phone to warrant a restraining order. I didn’t come here to help with the production.”
Miley’s stare flashed with a combination of pity, frustration, and confusion. Same look I got from everyone in town—those who didn’t know what to say and those who said too much.
“Son, I understand what happened here was tragic. But the town must heal from those events. They just can’t do it without you.”
That was a lie everyone repeated. “I resigned from the church.”
“Then it’s time for you to return to the congregation. Quite frankly, Varius…they’re lost without you.”
“I can’t offer them anything.”
“And I could give them everything, but they won’t take it.” Miley sighed. “No wonder monks live in solitude.”
“It’s not that bad.”
Miley gestured over the chapel. A cross-dressing Joseph taunted the hunger-striking choir members with a bag of Doritos. My sister took pictures of the scorched carpet for the insurance claim. The preschoolers staged a funeral for the melted baby Jesus.
But the tension raged through me, dredging up too many memories. It festered like a poison. Worse than before. Images of the nightmare flashed before my eyes. One blink, and the chapel was whole. Another, and the shattered destruction of broken timbers and raining glass collapsed once more upon the pews.
“I can’t do this.” My voice turned hoarse. “You know I lost my faith. They deserve more than an apathetic preacher.”
“They deserve a good ass whipping! In my day, the Bible was used for two things—reading and whacking. But I’m too old for this. You are the one they need.”
“I’m not coming back to this church.”
Miley sighed. “Then you can tell Her Royal Coordinator why we’re canceling the event…and after spending all that money on the sets and fire extinguishers.” Miley pinched the bridge of his nose. “She won’t take this well. Christ be with you, son. Hopefully He can help you.”
