Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

Roland takes a deep breath. His eyes scan over the crowd and I can’t help but wonder if he’s looking for me.

I lift my chin, swallowing hard to keep any overzealous tears at bay as I study him. The man who signed away his paternal rights to me without a second thought.

Sure, I’ve heard the sermons. The ones about his guilt and agony over decisions made in his sinful flesh, rather than under the guidance of a loving Jesus he discovered at the bottom of a bottle of bourbon.

He smiles and I see the dimple. In the cheek opposite the one mine sits in, it looks like we’re two halves of the same smile. It’s infectious—much more so than my smile has ever been, I’m sure—but, man, if it doesn’t look like I’m staring in a mirror… Our hair is different in color—my waves are from him—but that’s where the dissimilarities stop. In appearance anyway.

I’ve not let myself get close enough to him emotionally to see what other commonalities we share. What if discovering similarities in our personalities make me angry with him, myself, or Mom? Or God?

It hits me in the chest again that I’ve enrolled at Carter University to learn just as much about myself as about him, this man of faith preparing to address 1,500 enlistees in God’s army.

If he found Jesus, I find myself wondering, where was Jesus for me? Did Jesus think it was a-okay for me to not have my birth father around? Was Jesus hovering over the moment Mom met Dan, and I was granted a “normal” life I might not have had otherwise? Did Roland ever ask to be an active part of my life? Mom never told me if there had been any conversation about that, and Roland’s never said anything to me.

He’s been nothing but respectful of the strict boundaries my mom set between the two of us. He never talks with me about the relationship he wishes we’d have, always going on about his gratefulness that I choose to let him in even a little bit. And his gratefulness toward my mother for not telling him to take a hike.

“Good morning, Carter University,” he starts in a remarkably soft tone. A few students quietly respond with their greetings.

His accent is muddled. Southern, but only enough to catch my ear. I doubt my friends notice. It’s always sounded like this on TV, but never in person with me. His Wikipedia page clearly indicates he’s from the Midwest, but I know too little about that region of the country to know if this is authentic.

That dimple grows deeper and from the jumbo-tron I can see playful mischief in Roland’s eyes as he bellows, “Good morning, Carter University!”

I jump as shouts and applause crash through the crowd at a deafening volume. Roland seems to gain energy form this response, and he paces quickly to one end of the stage. “Who’s ready for a God-filled, Jesus-centered year?” he inquires passionately with the perma-smile I’ve come to associate with his on-stage persona. It could very well be how he is in real-life, too, though I haven’t had the opportunity to study that for any meaningful length of time. A disadvantage I’d planned to rectify as I sent in my application for the university.

“Let’s pray.” He bows his head and everyone around me does the same.

I can’t move my eyes from him. I’ve seen him on television for years and recognize these postures and his order of operations, but now it’s real. And my tears well as his voice petitions God.

My God.

“Heavenly Father, wrap your arms of protection around this incoming freshman class. Guide their hearts and minds, Lord, as they face temptations set in motion by the Evil One.”

Whoa, way to open with Satan…

“Lord Jesus,” he continues as his voice unmistakably starts to shake, “guide their actions. Spare them from the regret of sin…”

I cough as a sob rips through my chest and floods my face. Digging my elbows into my knees, I cradle my head in my hands. Then, anger swirls in.

I’m tired of being a byproduct of sin.





CHAPTER SIX


Move


I missed 95% of Roland’s sermon. This means I missed 95% of the entire service since these churches operate with three or four opening songs, then a long sermon and it’s over. No guided scripture readings or anything like I’m used to.

Still, having heard Roland’s “regret of sin” speech one time too many, I zoned out. I cried through some of it and stared blankly at the stage for the rest. Now everyone is saying “amen” and standing, greeting each other and talking about what an incredible Message it was.

Weakly, I rise to my feet. The Bible in my hand feels like it weighs ten tons, and I exude more effort than is probably necessary to hand it back to Jonah.

“Thanks,” I mumble, my voice startlingly devoid of life.

Jonah stands and wraps his hand around the edge of the book, leaving his hand in place for a moment before placing the book in his bag. I’m left staring off into space, though when Jonah rights himself after zipping his bag, it’s clear to me that it looks like I’m staring at him.