Hard As Nails
My brother and his fiancee invited me to Easter service this morning. A sucker for entertainment--any kind of entertainment, even saturated with religiosity, I accepted the invitation. Joe and his girlfriend are members of one of those big Foursquare Jesus Marts. And it was in one of these arena-sized arenas I witnessed this year's Resurrection Weekend production,
Glossy, slick, dripping with melodrama, this year's show dramatized a modern death row story, the set looking curiously like Jail House Rock. Replete with appropriate measures of guilt, angst, redemption, and a fog machine, the miracle of the resurrection played out in Jesus Marts all over the land this morning--the off, off Broadway extravaganza for the faith ridden.
And speaking of miracles--the fellow portraying the risen Lord at East Hill wasn't of the blond, blown-dry, blue-eyed variety, but a darker, more authentic representation of the Hebrew messiah.
Yeah, I shed tears. I always cry at the theater. But I regained my composure well before the pastor invited any and all souls moved to open their hearts to Jesus and raise their hands. I steeled myself--hard as nails, in my seat, journaling throughout. The broken were asked to raise their hands in a show of capitulation of reason and self-sovereignty. This would be the worst possible time for my head to itch, so of course it did. I resisted, keeping my hand down, and would eventually exit the arena just as I enetered--agnostic and rightfully superior. I did, howver, put two bucks in the offering basket.
"You're tithing?" Joe asked, surprised.
"Nope. I'm tipping.
Happy Easter,
Cindy
Glossy, slick, dripping with melodrama, this year's show dramatized a modern death row story, the set looking curiously like Jail House Rock. Replete with appropriate measures of guilt, angst, redemption, and a fog machine, the miracle of the resurrection played out in Jesus Marts all over the land this morning--the off, off Broadway extravaganza for the faith ridden.
And speaking of miracles--the fellow portraying the risen Lord at East Hill wasn't of the blond, blown-dry, blue-eyed variety, but a darker, more authentic representation of the Hebrew messiah.
Yeah, I shed tears. I always cry at the theater. But I regained my composure well before the pastor invited any and all souls moved to open their hearts to Jesus and raise their hands. I steeled myself--hard as nails, in my seat, journaling throughout. The broken were asked to raise their hands in a show of capitulation of reason and self-sovereignty. This would be the worst possible time for my head to itch, so of course it did. I resisted, keeping my hand down, and would eventually exit the arena just as I enetered--agnostic and rightfully superior. I did, howver, put two bucks in the offering basket.
"You're tithing?" Joe asked, surprised.
"Nope. I'm tipping.
Happy Easter,
Cindy
posted by Cindy St. Onge at 3:17 PM
1 Comments:
I just watched Steve Martin in "Leap of Faith" last night, which your blog reminded me of. You probably got more entertainment for your two bucks than I did. I can't enter a church these days unless I'M the entertainment (and paid for it), that's how far from religious I've become.
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