WWJC? (What Would Jesus Chew?)

Youth Nite at Riverside Baptist Church was the night that made me lose faith in god. I went with my friend KeriAnn Ellison from soccer. She was a forward and had a golden toe (I didn't know what that meant but it sounded fancy), and she was always picked first by the coach. She could knock girls down with her broad and husky shoulders, and used a size 5 ball when everyone else used a size 4. KeriAnn also loved Jesus.

One night, she decided to invite me with her to her youth group’s service. I wasn’t an avid churchgoer; my parents gave up on me after I failed playing the Virgin Mary in the nativity play. I dropped Jesus on the altar and watched helplessly as its plastic head rolled down the aisle. But I decided I would give it a try; after all, her mother Lisa was a nice heavyset woman who had eyes like a cocker spaniel, and I liked the way her mini-van smelled. Her father Danny reminded me of a Nascar driver. I don’t know if he actually was, he was just short, balding, and struck me as slightly stupid. But he was still nice, so I figured I would try.

The room was sparsely decorated, but filled with bracketed and center-parted pre-teens wearing white tennis shoes and Lee Dungarees. We got there late because KeriAnn and I had finished a soccer scrimmage later than expected, and there were only a few seats left in the room.

We sat in the front, greeted by two cold collapsible chairs. KeriAnn paid no mind to me and started talking to some friends who liked Garth Brooks and camouflage. I stared at the linoleum tile for a bit, and then to the tiled ceiling. So much tile, I thought. I wondered if that’s what Jesus would do if he were an interior designer.

The pastor took the stage, and never had I been so happy to hear the words "praise be to Jesus" in my life. He did some standard meet and greets, welcoming us back. He talked about sex for a bit and how people who loved god should wait until they are married to indulge in pleasures, and then he talked about Corinthians. I didn’t know what Corinthians was, but it reminded me of Phoenicians. I only knew who they were because my grandma told me once that I had Phoenician feet. Long and narrow, she said, unlike her plebian feet. My grandma was from West Virginia and had taught elementary school for 40 years. That’s enough to make someone’s feet wide.

All of a sudden I felt a sharp pain at my side. KeriAnn was shoving me with her elbow.

“Savannah,” she said, “aren’t you going to answer his question?” under her breath she added, “don’t embarrass me.”

I looked to the pastor. “Um, what was your question?”

I was thinking about my arches and metatarsals.

Everyone laughed at me. The girl to my left, to whom I had meekly smiled earlier, opened her mouth wide like an alligator, revealing crooked teeth stained Sunkist orange.

The pastor repeated the question. “So way-urr do yew cum frum?”

Sheepishly, I replied “here.”

Gator girl laughed again and nudged at my other side. “He means what church do you come from, stupid.”

Shit.

I didn’t go to church.

And that’s exactly what I said. “I don’t go to church.” I stared intently at the missing button on his yellow oxford, refusing to listen to the laughter that surrounded me.

Everyone was silent.

His eyes narrowed and squinted like a mole over his pulpit, fat fingers squeezing on its sides like overstuffed sausages. He licked his lips and I wished that my foldable chair would collapse and swallow me with it. “Well looks like yer gonna have a tough tihme followin’ tonight.” He laughed skittishly, and it reminded me of the breathing exercises future mothers do while in labor, but I stopped imagining him giving birth when I realized I was supposed to continue the dialogue.

“Following what?”

He grinned. “Bible verse recitations.” All of a sudden, kids behind me began clapping their hands and licking the salt from the sides of their greasy lips. From his pockets, the pastor pulled out the prize: strawberry Mentos.

The pastor pulled the first verse from a hat: “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God!”

A fat girl in the corner sprung from her chair, spitting as she shouted “ROMANS 3:23!”

He tossed the pink tube to her, and her eyes followed it as if she were about to catch the holy grail.

People were starting to warm up now. He pulled out another question.

"Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born again."

A skinny boy with glasses popped up, but he was knocked back down by a boy named Tommy. He wanted Mentos. “John 3:3,” he grunted.

The pastor threw him Mentos.

Soon enough, everyone was opening the wrappers of these chewy berry delights, smiling and eating them three at a time, because that is what Jesus would do if he got his questions right. They reminded me of puppies in obedience training.

The pastor threw his final package of Mentos to the skinny boy. I looked to KeriAnn, who was opening her third package. I asked her if I could have one. She snarled at me the way she did the defenders on opposing teams. “Maybe if you knew bible verses,” she said, “you’d deserve a Mento.”

My cheeks turned pink. I didn’t even like Mentos; I just wanted to fit in. “But I was just thinking, since you have so many, one wouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

I could feel a sweaty hand on my left shoulder. It was the pastor. “Sorry you couldn’t get any candy tonight, Samantha,” he said. “But KeriAnn here shouldn’t be givin' ya candy if ya don’t deserve it; that’s called ‘dishonesty.’ We don’t do dishonesty in this church.”

In my peripheral vision I could see a heavy object approaching from his side, resting itself on my lap. “But here’s something Jesus would give to someone like yew. Do you know what this is, Samantha?”

I wanted to tell him my name was Savannah and that yes I knew it was a bible, but I hadn’t read it since I was too busy reading "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea."

“This here’s a bible, and this is where the kids are gettin’ their answers from. If you read it, you can get candy and be happy like them, too.”

Alligator girl was picking her nose and eating Mentos. Tommy was picking a fight with the skinny boy, who had begun curling himself up into a fetal position. KeriAnn was flexing her tanned biceps. I opened the bible, flipped through a few of the pages, and then closed it.

“Just by memorizing," I said, "that makes you happy?”

He laughed. “Well yeah, Samantha. If you don’t memorize it, then none of it matters.”

I handed him back the book, and took one final look at KeriAnn. She was staring at me as if I were stupid and then went back to scarfing down Mentos. In the distance, the skinny boy was running away in panic as Tommy chucked his candy at him. That synthesized strawberry smell made me want to gag, and I couldn’t contain myself any longer.

“Well, Pastor, my name is Savannah and I hate Mentos.”

He looked at me, shocked, as if disliking Mentos was akin to taking a piss on the Shroud of Turin. I got up from my foldable chair and walked outside proudly on my Phoenician feet.

KeriAnn’s mom picked us up later in her mini-van, and I found myself exiled in the back with the dog food and soccer cleats. The ride to my house was a long and silent one until, through the rear view mirror, her sad canine eyes locked with mine.

“Did you have fun, Savannah?” she asked.

I smiled politely and looked back. “Yes, Mrs. Ellison, I had a great time.”