Strange simile, I know. And I utilize my bouncers—aka Simon and Bartholomew
—for handling the physicalities. Arguments are my strong suit, not fighting. I was not made for brute force—they were. Intelligence is my forte, diplomacy. And before you say anything, shut the fuck up, Mary.
Enough explanation—I’m neither the local chamber of commerce nor am I Webster’s Unabridged.
As the tent fills with milling people, I wander among them. I have no fixed location. My job is to be everywhere, see everything, take care of everything.
When I’m working, I dress to fit the role, rather than my usual casual garb—or lack thereof. Tonight my choice is a three piece suit, my long golden hair tied back at the nape of my neck. Strictly off the rack, no designer crap for moi; as often as not I find my clothes in the local thrift shop. Let the slut parade about in her name brand extravagances—that’s money better put to good works, such as feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless. Why can’t she understand that? And why doesn’t he give her grief for it? Such a waste…
The young people flock to see us, and while a great part of the attraction, I know, is Jesus and his words—they simply adore him wherever we go—their interest is also due to the music we offer. Young people are easy to reach in that regard. Bring out a few guitars, some drums, some mumbled lyrics, and they’re willing to listen to your message. No, I’m not being cynical, merely realistic.
I glance at the stage, which is already set up, of course, the instruments sitting idle, the musicians not yet in place. Andrew, lummox Simon’s brother, is fiddling with the soundboard already, and I wince at occasional feedback from his direction. I wish I had some input into what that lot plays, but not one of them gives a fuck what I think or want. Personally, I’d replace all of them with a good stereo system any day. But Jesus prefers that they play, and what Jesus wants, Jesus gets. Amen. To be honest, Thaddeus does oblige me now and then with something more classical than not—he plays the violin, both electric and acoustic
—and James plays flute, and together they sound pretty good, I have to admit. Call me old fashioned, if you will, but there’s a reason the music I listen to has survived the test of time. Where will the headbangers be in fifty years? Hopefully, all dead.
I’m also partial to good choir music. Male voices raised together in perfect harmony in the performance of worshipful hymns. Beautiful. Touching. Very spiritual. When I play my tapes, as I’m wont to do when I’m working, and before anyone else has arrived, I continually receive queries as to who has died. Smart asses. I tell them they’re fucking heathens and that generally shuts them up. For the moment. Although I notice they never pull that shit when Jesus is around. It does no good to complain, though. He talks to them, they pretend to listen—the road to where is paved with what?—and then it simply happens again. I don’t care about them. I really don’t. Only him. Always him.
I have a table set up with informational pamphlets of all sorts—nothing too radical, as I’ve found that simply puts up the locals’ collective backsides too quickly, before we have a chance to get our message across. Not that they’ll all get it anyway, or even care that they don’t. But you reach the ones you can, and pray for the rest, you know? What is our message, you ask? I’m surprised you really don’t know. Peace, love, and understanding—what else? Love is the key to everything, for if you love all people, you have no time for violence or hatred, or any of the other evils with which our world is permeated. Tolerance of others with different beliefs—does it truly matter how you worship your God, as long as everyone acknowledges him in some form? Intolerance is simply intolerable, whether it be because of the color of one’s skin, the way one chooses to worship, or one’s sexual orientation (not surprisingly a pet peeve of mine, for obvious reasons). It saddens me to think that even if I won his love, I couldn’t wed him—
does it shock you to know I think of him that way? That I wish to marry him in the sight of God, his father, and live out our lives as any couple would? Perhaps you pity me for my exercise in futility, knowing he doesn’t feel that way, and that our story is already written and cannot be changed, no matter how I wish it? Well, save your fucking pity—there is nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know.
Don’t you think it hurts? Don’t you think it kills me to know I’m forever barred from something that should be a right of every person on this planet? Or do you believe Judas has no soul, no heart to harm…don’t believe everything you read in the scriptures. None of them knew me, or cared to know me. And dammit…