Testament

         The font's pretty, I suppose, especially the way the holy water makes the light dance across the bottom. I dip my fingers into its contents and touch them to my forehead, chest, shoulder, shoulder. It's just water, maybe slightly greasy and I don't know why because I know it's just water. Maybe I'm expecting something different. At least it's not burning, haha.

         I go up the aisle to the middle-most pew, get down on one knee and repeat those movements, forehead, chest, shoulder, shoulder. What do they call that? I've forgotten. Genuflect, that's right. Everyone around me is kneeling with their hands fisted in front of them, but with their frowns and furrowed brows, no one looks particularly devout. I can't tell what they're thinking. Probably, it's about how much they don't want to be here. I can sympathize.

         But if I feel that way now, I can't wait until this thing actually starts. I count hats to pass the time. There are fifteen people in front of me. Six have hats, nine do not, shouldn't the people wearing hats take them off? They're in a church. Either way, six and nine, sixty-nine, oh, I'm so immature, but it's funny until three more people slide into a pew up front and throw off my numbers. I sulk. Thou shalt not kill my jokes, no matter how low brow they may be.

         The priest and the altar servers enter and someone begins the first strains of a hymn on the organ, so we stand up. The congregation sings, following the hymnal. It's a beautiful song when it's not ripped from the mouths of caffeine-deprived men and women and their miserable children (most of whom are squalling rather than singing and I don't blame them). The priest gets to the altar and tells us, "In the name of the Father," and that's all I hear before I blindly follow his movements, forehead, chest, shoulder, shoulder, three down, how many to go? "Amen," we all answer in almost unison after the Spirit part of the Holy Spirit. The priest begins to speak again and I'm still ignoring him until everyone begins to sing-song the Kyrie. Kyrie, Christe, Kyrie, eleison. Lord and Christ have mercy. Mercy. Mercy.

         The parts I hate most about these are the readings. A reading from the Old Testament, a Psalm, and by the time we hit the Gospel, I'm ready to rip my hair out. Finally, "The Word of God," frees me to answer, "Praise be to you Lord Jesus Christ," and it's almost done. The homily is next and it's guaranteed to be uninteresting and far too didactical for me to stomach, so I ignore that too.

         Everyone stands and I follow suit. I've completely forgotten the Creed, so I just mouth what I can remember, letting everyone else fill in the blanks. "We believe in God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of lalala…Jesus Christ, the only son of God, eternally begotten and some other stuff God from God, light from light, something something, begotten, not made…" and so on and so forth until somewhere around the crucifixion under Pontius Pilate I give up trying to fake it. It's probably disrespectful.

         Lord, hear our prayer.

         Lord, hear our prayer.

         Lord, hear our prayer, even though it's probably the most unenthusiastic supplication You've ever come across.

         The priest prepares and blesses the Eucharist, and we all watch in silence. I zone out until he calls and we respond in monotone once again. "We lift them up to the Lord. It is right to give him thanks and praise," and dear God, we sound like puppets. "Hosanna in the highest, blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord." Haha, comes, I'm going to Hell for that.

         He's finally done and everyone rises to get in line to receive the Eucharist. Apparently I'm taking too long to do so, because the woman next to me huffs and glares. Screw her, I should just sit and make her walk around me, but I simply get in line instead. The body of Christ, the body of Christ, the body of Christ, my turn, the body of Christ, Amen. The little wafer is placed into my palm. I pop it into my mouth (forehead, chest, shoulder, shoulder) as I walk away, recoiling at the taste of cardboard, but I don't think I can get away with spitting it out.

         Everyone is on their knees, praying again and I do the same, but no prayer runs through my head. All I can think of are to-do lists and other useless things. Eventually, my mind begins to wander freely and I lift my head to look at the walls and ceiling. The first thing I notice is that no one has any emotion, not even on the Stations of the Cross, not even Mary as she looks blankly at the crucifix. I expect that kind of stoicism from Jesus, but not from a mother watching her son die, blessed or otherwise. My lungs feel frozen as I look at her, and I turn away as the very last person gets his body of Christ, Amen.

         We get off the kneelers, turn them up and sit down on the pew as someone lists off various community events I have no intention of attending. Once that's done, the priests and the altar servers go down the aisle. They're barely out the front doors before everyone rushes out. The woman who sat next to me pushes me aside in her hurry and I secretly flip her off. Somehow, I manage to make it through the throng anyway only to have to wade through the sea of grandparents surrounding the priest just outside. My cell phone vibrates in my pocket and I open it to see that I've gotten a text from my mother, "You're late." I know that, and I know she's mad, I'm hurrying as fast as I can. My car's parked as close to the church as possible, which is good; I won't have to try and make it across the entire lot alive, because none of these people care if they run someone down in the process. It doesn't matter, however, because as I try to back out of my spot, someone blares their horn and zips behind me, nearly clipping my bumper. I ease back in slowly, turn the car off and lay my head against the steering wheel. I have to fight back the overwhelming urge to cry.