The Death of My God

Dear Future Historian,

I was about six or seven, I think. It was Christmas. I was backstage, in the amphitheatre of the church I was ‘going to’ (or was dragged to) back then. I was wearing a costume, but I’m not sure if I was an angel or a sheep. I guess I was a sheep because I remember that it was making me very itchy.

However, there was a boy there with much more serious problems than mine. A couple of adults that were not in the play came into our dressing-room. There was an increasing commotion that made me forget how itchy I was. I asked a girl what was happening. She said that the boy might die if he didn’t go to the hospital soon! That was the day I first heard about appendicitis.

The boy’s father was on stage at the time, giving a speech about how the blood of Jesus (such obsession that Christians have with blood, they only share with Vampires and Tarantino) washed us of our sins and paid our bail to the Devil who had some kind of legal claim on us that could only be paid with the blood of a willing sacrifice of an innocent (very Mafia-like concept I thought. I guess I was already watching too much telly). The son of God became human with one and only goal: to die (because I wasn’t a good girl, because there aren’t any good people and mostly though because the Devil demanded blood) and we all should follow His example!

Meanwhile, his son was dying backstage. His wife went upstage to him to inform him that they needed to go. Urgently! Yet, she never actually managed to convey any message. With a gesture, he dismissed her and continued his religious delirium—or was it the stage and the audience that had intoxicated him?

I realised I needed to go to the bathroom, but there was no way that I would miss this. I remember being very determined to stay and keep my eyes open to see (I thought Jesus had said something about having open eyes, but I couldn’t recall the verse) how the adults would deal with this situation. The boy’s mother didn’t insist. She stepped off the stage back to the dressing-room and turned completely pale. She looked like a ghost.

I tried to remind myself that there are no ghosts, only demons and angels, but it’s not normal to worry about them when I wake up to drink water in the middle of the night; this is because Jesus will deal with all that and I should go back to bed anyway.

Lost in my thoughts about spiritual battlefields, I missed the first reaction to this family dynamic, but I saw the main pastor going to the father of the boy then. The preacher stopped for a moment, bent his head with submission to listen to the pastor and without any hesitation made a gesture that showed that he didn’t grasp at all the seriousness of the situation and that he would be backstage after his preaching finishes, as he is under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, or something like that.

The preacher returned to the dressing-room very puzzled. The adults gathered and started talking, but I couldn’t hear very well what they were saying. All this time, the preacher’s voice echoed loud enough to cover any whisper. I thought that if he was doing cartoon voiceovers, he would surely play the villain. The mother, still white as a vampire, was sitting next to the suffering boy, holding his hand, and lost in her own attempts to rationalise this madness.

Suddenly, the pastor grabbed the boy, the pastor’s wife grabbed the boy’s mother who was still in shock and needed assistance. They took them to their car and to a hospital. The doctors said that the boy was minutes away from actually dying when they arrived. Then, I could finally go to the bathroom, but I had to be very quick because the play was still happening, even with one sheep less (the boy was supposed to be a sheep—or was he an angel? I’m not sure.)

The boy’s father on the other hand, who kept preaching for about ten minutes more, apparently got very upset that his wife didn’t wait as she was told, and that the pastor had told him to wrap it up, although he could just keep talking since they went without him!

On my way back, after going to the bathroom, I thought that I didn’t really want to go backstage again. I thought the father of the boy might still be there, with his villain voice, bitching after preaching.

I squeezed myself behind a bookshelf in the hallway. No one was there. Everyone was in the theatre room, or the dressing-room, or upstage. That’s where I was supposed to be, too. I stayed still and quiet. I checked if my breathing was too loud, if my hair was sticking out from my hiding place, and if anything would betray my safety.

I have no idea how long I stayed there. And, to be honest, I can’t even imagine now how I managed to occupy myself till the end of the play. When the doors opened and people started coming out, I heard some of them whispering about the boy and the appendicitis and all that, but they were all moving, and I couldn’t really follow any particular conversation.

I dragged myself out of my hiding place, in front of all these people, but no one noticed. I went to the main entrance and my mum was speaking to a friend of hers, asking if she knew what had happened to the boy. I kept walking. I saw the girl who was responsible for us backstage. She smiled at me and started walking towards the exit. No one noticed! They didn’t even notice that I was gone! That was even more interesting than what had happened backstage.

Moving forward about twelve years, I was in India in a biblical missionaries’ school for a six-month course though I wasn’t sure why I even had gone there. My God had died that day, backstage, at that church-play. Yet, I still refused to bury Him. I actually didn’t even remember that incident and I couldn’t understand why my faith was full of doubts. I still wasn’t ready to declare myself ‘spiritually orphaned.’ After all, there was the entire eternity at stake here. That is a long time indeed. Not a matter that you can afford to have doubts about.

Maybe I was doing something wrong. Maybe I wasn’t devoted enough to have the right to request my heavenly Father’s divine understanding of why I have faith issues. Maybe if I travelled to the other side of the world for Him ... maybe His grace would give me a proper explanation, an effortless faith (like my mum’s) or at least some peace.

One day, in one of our useless visits to a local village—useless because we didn’t even once give any practical aid—we were just told by the leader to go with some locals there because ‘foreigners attract people’ so they can speak to them about Jesus ... because saving their souls is way more important than any actual practical help.

But that day there was much commotion at a shed in the centre of the village. People were gathered in a circle, so I couldn’t see what was happening. I moved closer. Something there triggered the memory of that Christmas play. Hmm! How did I ever forget that? Maybe he made me forget! And, if he did, was that an act of grace (to keep my faith intact—as we know that didn’t really work) or was it a clear act of manipulation?

Now, I could almost see between some shoulders. There was a woman in her thirties with three men around her holding her still as she was screaming and trying to escape. Her long braids had become loose and were all over the place. Her saree was about to become loose too!

Yet, no one had stopped these men, as much as she seemed to beg them. I couldn’t understand what any of them said (they were speaking Tamil) but it was clear that she was begging them to stop. The crowd was just standing there, some of them trying to hide a nervous laugh, some with their eyes closed praying, and some just joker-faced (mostly women in this last category).

I asked the leader what was happening.

-       She is possessed by demons! We will set her free in the name of our Lord!

That was the moment that my god realised it was finally time to go and bury himself. After that, he knew it was over with me. After that, he had no chance to gain me back.

So, he willingly went into his grave. I still miss him sometimes...