First Presbyterian Cathedral is a massive sanctuary. Area-wise, it is larger than a soccer field. Capacity-wise, 10 000 churchgoers would fit inside its dimensions. Aesthetically, the cathedral is the American “Sistine Chapel.” The ceiling bedazzles in deep purple diamonds that are crafted so exquisitely that the white stars have a brighter twinkle than the surrounding sea of violet. The three stained glass shapes on the ceiling that respectfully line up in a straight line are giant signet rings, with the outer feathers colored in a warm azure purple that ripples with tropical beauty. The middle ring, a multicolored assortment plucked directly from the rainbow is slightly dimmer and harder to notice. And the centrality of these royal rings is the oval sun, that shines with the radiance of everything majestic and holy. The seven large columns holding up this gargantua are composed of real, literal, centuries-old gold whose prices rocket to beyond mere millions of dollars. The wood composing the railings are from oak trees that probably existed since the dinosaurs and is colored in deep dark luxuriant chocolate. The wooden carvings of Apostles, Deacons, and Church Fathers etched into the sides of the pews look like real people-folk. Surpassing the ceiling are the walls-there, the stained glass windows are another level of amazing. There is a glittering, shimmering portrait of an orange cross on an orange hill and surrounded by the bluest sky ever. There is the Archangel Michael, with the blondest of blonde hair, a beauteous face of Renaissance youth, and shining silver armor riding a winged white horse into battle as his shimmering sword plunges down. And there is the Holy Grail, that fabled gold cup, along with its companions-the purple grapes, the chaffs of wheat, and the breaking of Israelite flatbread. There is also the geometric variety and complexity of the octagon, the hexagon, the triangle, and the rhombus. In the front is the jewel of the entire cathedral-I’m not talking about the massive pipe organ. I’m talking about what’s below the organ-the grandest stained glass tapestry of all-The Triumph of Christianity Over Paganism. The massive rectangle is an exact reproduction of Gustave Dore’s masterpiece and it shows Christ putting all the gods of the world, including Zeus, Hera, Athena, and Satan into the very pits of Hell. Honestly, I think the Greek gods are on the same jerk level as that of Veronica and Billy so let them rot in hell. At both edges of the stained glass hang a sheathed sword. I have never seen what the swords actually look like so I have to go with the obvious-silvery steel. The long wooden table in the middle of the stage is the Communion Table. On both sides of the table are brightly burning scented candles, their weak flames keeping vigil in such a hollow space. In the middle is a white porcelain plate on which is found a large slab of bread and a yellow cup that is definitely not made of gold. Behind these two objects is a real gold Cross that is always filled with light, even in the darkness. And this is the church that I attend every Sunday morning. It’s beautiful but I don’t have any real connection to it, unlike the other “crazy, radical Christians.”
The service always starts with worship. The long, white-robed choir singers stand in the choir stalls that stack up part way to the stained glass painting. In front of them and around the Communion table are the Lowcountry Boys, a local bluegrass band that dabbles in gospel during the weekends. It’s a family affair, led by the hundred-year-old patriarch Dwight, who sits in a walker, plays his acoustic guitar, and blows through the harmonica that is wired around his neck. Accompanying him is his similarly-disabled wife Martha, who plays mandolin, his elderly son James, who plays banjo and who at least can stand properly, his middle-aged grandson Rory, who plays the bass and is practically reaching to play the neck (he’s a dwarf standing on a stool), and his great-granddaughter Patricia, who plays the fiddle or in more common vernacular, the violin (I would frequently lust after her as she looked especially hot in her flowery orange dress). At the left edge of the stage is the Steinway grand piano, on which breathes and lives the black choir director, Travis Quentin. He had had a successful career in black media and nearly broke out into the mainstream with a string of Grammys but as I quote him, “Gawd calle me back to servin ma Gawd en ma people.” His nephew Drew plays bass guitar, Frankie the saxophone, Josh the trumpet, Brandon the drums, Tito the organ, and Jermaine the guitar. All six are attachments that Travis had brought with him from the Gospel Music Awards (GMAs). During worship, three types of praise songs are usually played-(1) a fast-paced, dancey gospel song, (2) a slower paced Anglo hymn, and (3) instrument-less psalm singing. This Sunday, the programme was (1) All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name (Edward Perronet), (2) Come Thou Fount (Robert Robinson), and (3) Psalm 23 (King David). During the upbeat, energetic portion, the service can get especially crazy. As the band and the choir were shrieking in the cavernous space, the congregation was doing the same. I cringed as I saw Pat Cochrane whistle into a microphone-he wasn’t even onstage. I cringed even harder as I saw Albulena Cochrane clap and dance around as if she was a little child who had just received a Christmas present.
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I cringed the hardest when I saw a toddler running up and down the aisle, screaming “I LOVE JESUS!!! I LOVE JESUS!!! I LOVE JESUS!!!” I would never do anything like that, even if I had a gun to my head. De nada.
After the cessation of worship, Pastor Ian Knowles would come onstage. He was a thin, wiry, nervous-looking man who wore the most mundane outfit ever-a grey tweed suit, a black tie, grey tweed pants, and black dress shoes. The only accessory that was worth any interest at all was his white formal vest which he wore over his dress shirt. In his right hand, he carried his thick, red, leather-bound King James Bible. He would place it on the large, wooden pulpit and then he would ramble for a very long time on what he and the rest of the congregation called “a prayer.” He would pray for many things, i.e. tomorrow’s weather, the illnesses of various elderly and middle-aged congregants, the grades and job offers of various high schoolers and university students, and the blessings of protection on any family that was going on vacation. In short, he prayed for every “saved” congregant. And I did not care for any one of them. However, my apathy and boredom was broken when he mentioned Mr. Grincher.
“Mr. Grincher, who has laboured much in his occupation as an English teacher, has now gone to be with the Lord. May the King of kings grant him eternal peace and may the Perfect Judge find and bring to justice those who murdered him. And may our merciful Father bring the perpetrators to genuine repentance.”
I made a snarky snicker at this, being so disgusted by these “so-called Christians” in celebrating a man who was so evil that if I had to compare him with Hitler, I would consider the latter as a saint. Pastor Ian was a fake who knew he was lying under his teeth. If there was such a God, He would embarrass Pastor Ian so much that he would tell everyone that he was an addicted liar. To add injury to the insult, the pastor instructed all of us to obey a moment of silence.
I was so mad at this stupid, foolish silence that I wanted to shout “Hey-ho, hey-ho, Grincher is a hoe!” But I knew that I could not accomplish my urgent dreams as the grounding chains were still around me. So I had to stand through that retarded performance and hope against hope that time was on my side.
Finally, after a damnably long time, Pastor Ian began preaching. But even then, it was an extension of my boredom. This Sunday, he was sourcing his words from Matthew 20:1-16 which is a riddle about workers in a vineyard. A lot of the sermon was typical religious fluff that I could not be bothered to listen to with weird Shakespearean groanings, facts about Israelite and Roman life that were terribly irrelevant to 21st century Lowcountry living, and pleading exhortations to avoid envy.
Then as he was coming to verse 15b, which is “Is thine eye evil, because I am good?”, his explanation shocked me from my apathy and shook me quite fearfully.
“This statement,” explained Pastor Ian. “Is a Hebraism that differentiates between those with good eyes and those with bad eyes. Those with good eyes will see everything through the lens of generosity, kindness, and love. Those with bad eyes will see everything through the lens of selfishness, self-centeredness, and envy. As Matthew 6:22-23 aptly explains, ‘The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!’”
As these words entered my ears and then into my mind, that same dread that I had felt when I saw those kids began to open up in my stomach again. My heart increased its pulsation as cold sweat began to trickle down my face. My entire morning of forgetfulness was now subdued by the unrelenting images of those hooded monsters. As they raised their heads to expose their absolutely evil eyes at me, I found no choice but to pray.
“Dear God, get them out. Dear God, get them out. Dear God, get them out and make me forget. Please.”
It was no use. They continued to raise their heads. I shut my eyes tightly. Maybe the darkness would obscure them. But the void still showed their eyes and made those concentrated black beads even more potent. As they blazed their disturbing optical power at me, I felt my heart sink into the dread-pit at a speed faster than that of a light-speed spaceship. My ultimate destiny was to die. At the hands of the Black Eyed Kids. And no one was going to save me.
