The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,35
religious itch without requiring more of us than that we be entertained by Christians instead of unbelievers, Peggy thought the church was far too secular. The music was too loud, too fast. There were too many references to movies in the sermons, and not Christian movies, but films from Hollywood.
“I don’t think Jesus went around quoting from Shakespeare!” she said.
I wanted to explain about anachronism, and how in AD 33 it would have been tricky to start quoting lines that wouldn’t be written for another fifteen hundred years, but I knew Peggy would not only be suspicious of the word anachronism, she’d be suspicious of me as well. Plus, if anybody could have quoted the Bard in the age of the Caesars, Jesus would have been the guy.
Clearly, my attempt to rein in Peggy ended in failure. I felt conflicted because, as irritating as I found her inflexibility and her uninformed confidence, the fact was, I saw something beautiful in her simple faith. It’s not so easy to dismiss people you disagree with when you sense God working in their lives too.
Later, when I shared the remark about Shakespeare with Rick, expecting him to get a kick out of it, he grew quite angry and resentful.
“Did you tell her about Paul and Mars Hill?” he snapped.
“No, why should I?”
“How he quoted the pagan poets? I mean, come on! Beth, you can’t let these people get away with their ignorance. What Paul does . . . I mean, it’s worse than Shakespeare—”
“What’s wrong with Shakespeare?”
“Nothing, Beth, no, that’s not what I mean. From Peggy Ensign’s point of view. Paul’s quoting poems written to praise Zeus as if they were true, only they applied to the true God rather than Zeus.”
In hindsight, it occurs to me that the apostle Paul might have understood Chas Worthing’s take on creative nonfiction a little better than I do.
But I digress.
Most of my friends at The Community, though we’re part of the evangelical world, view the whole thing with a certain level of self-criticism. We’re conscious of the excesses, the embarrassments. We would rather not speak out than risk speaking out and being misconstrued. But Peggy has never been separated from her opinions. She loves everything that bears the Christian label and hates everything that doesn’t. Which is why, even if Jesus didn’t have a Jesus fish on his chariot (or for that matter, didn’t have a chariot to begin with), she thinks every Christian ought to have a Jesus fish on her minivan bumper.
Now, however, the issue isn’t Jesus fish. It’s the Ten Commandments. In particular, a statue from the 1950s at a public high school out in the county, a patriotic bronze that symbolized our great anti-Communist, Judeo-Christian heritage with two symbols: a scroll bearing the words “We, the people . . .” followed by a row of lines meant to represent the text, and a camel-humped stone tablet that says DECALOGUE across the front.
Yes, that’s right. There’s a photo on Peggy’s handout.
None of the actual Ten Commandments are written on this tablet. Nothing about stealing or killing or committing adultery. Just that single word DECALOGUE in raised letters running underneath both humps.
For years this thing was in storage at the school, until a board member found out and insisted that the “censored” artwork be put on display again. Which led to a lawsuit, then an appeal, and now to an impassioned twenty-minute harangue from Peggy Ensign about how, if we don’t do something, we’re going to lose this nation’s Christian heritage for good.
I flip through the handout, waiting patiently for this to end. Next to me, Nat starts inspecting her manicure, then tugging at her sleeves.
“It breaks my heart to see what’s happening in America,” Peggy says, dabbing at her eyes.
Funny thing is, she’d be a great fit for the Rent-a-Mob. Better than me. If she could ignore the particular issues, I suspect the experience would be quite cathartic, like it is for Chas. Peggy wants to scream at people. She wants to force them to hear. Even now, as she wipes tears from her cheeks, I know she resents the fact she’s the only one in the room who’s crying. She’s not satisfied with the ladies. None of us measure up to her standard. We’re not outraged enough, not vocal enough, insufficiently bent out of shape. She’d probably yell at us if she thought she could get away with it.