Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

Although, fast-forwarding to today, I can’t say I’m all that surprised. Word around campus is there are several new members on the Board of Trustees at CU that are pushing the school to stretch its staunch position on nearly every issue. Again, Roland seems like a decent common ground here. While I’ve not heard him make any remark that would count as “liberal,” he certainly doesn’t rain fire and brimstone down on a land of sinners. Roland seems to be the draw for both sides—it’s like they’re both watching him to decide which group gets to claim him and parade him around as their Christian poster boy.

As luck would have it, we’re sitting next to Joy’s family. I kid you not. I’ve done my best to avoid her. I haven’t seen her since the day I dragged her out of Word. She sits with different kids during any mealtimes we share together, and frankly, I’m fine with that. I haven’t really tried to be nice to her, but she hasn’t tried with me, either. I’ve got a lot going on in my head and zero space for Joy and her dirty looks. Except now, of course.

As her last name suggests, her adoptive parents are of Hispanic descent. I can’t remember where she’s from, but I do remember her sharing that her parents are missionaries who rescued her from a sin-savaged land. Or something like that. My parents fall into easy conversation with hers as we take our seats, leaving Joy and I to stand awkwardly by their sides and smile the tightest smiles known to man. She’s polite enough to my parents, and I to hers. They seem like perfectly normal people.

Seem is the word my mother would focus on. I shrug and turn my gaze away from the Martinez family. For all I know, they’ll have a heated prayer session after the assembly, begging God to save my soul and the souls of my parents.

Whitewashed tombs?

While I’m not technically in a New Testament class, I’ve been spending evening quiet time brushing up on the words of Jesus for my own social sake, and I can’t help but wonder how many whitewashed tombs surround me on a daily basis. Sure, skeletons in one’s closet is a perfectly fine secular analogy, but being a tomb full of dead men’s bones? Leave it to Jesus to drive it home in such a spectacular way. Charisma, thy name is Jesus.

And Roland, who is now taking the stage.

Somehow, in my internal rambling, I missed his introduction, but looking to my left and seeing the statue-like appearance of my mother tells me she heard every word, each one acting like cement for her muscles. Unmoving and with a perfectly political grin on her face, Mom stares straight ahead. I’m not even sure she’s blinking.

Please, God, let this be an easy pill to swallow. I kinda really need you here. Now.

Luckily, we’re sitting to the left of the stage, about three quarters of the way up, and I expect to be out of view from Roland. Though, he really does have an uncanny ability to spot me no matter where I sit during his church services. I pray, once more, and ask God to keep his eyes away from us. He asked me last week if my parents were coming this weekend, and I told him yes. He said “parents” without much difficulty, and I still haven’t decided if I’m relieved or offended by that.

Roland starts his speech with a short, light prayer that seems to break something in the room. Uncertainty of this “radical” pastor? Maybe. Maybe it was just something breaking in me. Either way, I instinctively lean my head to the left and rest it on my mother’s shoulder. I feel her catch her breath as if she’s caught off guard, then she wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me close.

Roland doesn’t mention the sin of his youth during this speech. What he does do is encourage the students and their families to fully commit their lives to Christ. It strikes me that this speech is more evangelical than his last sermon, which was more than the sermon before that. It’s like he’s easing us into a place where we’re somehow ready to hear what he really wants to say.

“Jesus didn’t suffer and die on the cross for you to have one foot in the world and one in the Word, friends. He wants hundred-percenters.”

This gets a rise out of the assembled body. Choruses of “Amen! Hallelujah! Preach!” sprout up around us, and I feel Mom chuckle. I don’t ask her to behave this time, I just don’t want her to break down. If she wants to laugh, she can laugh.

Interestingly, I note the distinguished panel of trustees and university higher-ups nodding and seeming altogether pleased with Roland’s sermon topic. I wonder, lifting my head and crossing my legs, what “hundred-percenters” means to each of them.

“One hundred percent might be a scary proposition,” Roland starts as if he’s heard my thoughts, “but no one said following Jesus would be an easy ride on a rainbow road.”

Chuckles speckle the crowd, even from Dan.

“We might be asked to pack up and leave our lives, like the Apostles did. Like many missionary families do. We might be asked to love the unloving, befriend the unfriendly, help those who scorn at us.” Roland paces faster, his voice rising with every step. “We might be asked, church, to step back and accept responsibility for our actions. To live with consequences.”