![]() ![]() Vern wanted us to be reminded that our sin hurt our pastor in the same way it had hurt Jesus and God-likely more. Next to it was a portrait of Vern in imitation of Jesus, his own face woeful, smeared with what I assumed was fake blood and makeup, but it looked so real I didn’t know for sure. The light filtered orange through the stained glass and below it, on the wall, hung a portrait of Jesus with a bloody and beaten face, a reminder of the horrors He’d gone through. The ceiling was high with rafters surrounding it, and a single stained-glass window loomed behind the pulpit, featuring a pack of fearful flying cherubs. The pews were built by the hands of men when Vern’s father was a young pastor. There was a fine layer of God glitter permanently on it like a varnish for there was no need to sweep away a physical wonder of the spirit. In the center of the groaning floor the tired wood drooped and made the church a shallow bowl. By some impossible magic the whole Body fit here every Sunday. ![]() In the emptiness, the space seemed smaller. If God brought the heat we were meant to be hot. There had never been air-conditioning, never even a swamp cooler. The pad in my briefs felt heavy and I wanted it off. Photo: Uwa Scholz / EyeEm/Getty Images/EyeEmīy the time I arrived at Gifts of the Spirit, my mother’s dress was wet against my back. ![]()
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