Say a Little Prayer(14)
“Let me guess,” I say to no one in particular. “It’s the virus of sin.”
“I’m talking, of course, about the virus of sin,” Pastor Young continues solemnly.
Julia snorts into her hand. I make the mistake of glancing at her out of the corner of my eye, and the two of us descend into silent giggles as the image on-screen changes to a very dejected-looking cartoon Eve holding an apple in the middle of a garden. The fact that she has to wear a full leaf turtleneck while Adam stands bare chested next to her only makes us laugh harder.
“Sin, much like a virus, infects our hearts and minds,” Pastor Young continues, oblivious to our inability to keep it together. “It also starts small, so insignificant you might not think to care, but if left untreated, it spreads into our spiritual immune system, weakening us and distancing us from God’s love.”
He launches into a theatrical synopsis of the seven deadly sins, the same ones laid out in our camp workbooks. The week’s theme couldn’t be clearer, even if Pastor Young’s analogy is problematic in more ways than I can count. I flip open my workbook and run a finger down the list of sins printed in the table of contents. Sloth, greed, gluttony, wrath, lust, jealousy, pride. When Pastor Young turns to pace the opposite side of the stage, microphone in hand like some kind of radio DJ, I lean over to Julia and whisper, “Is this what it’s like all week? Just a bunch of reasons why we’re going to hell?”
She keeps her eyes locked up front even as the corner of her mouth curls up. “Of course. Why else would we come all the way out here?”
“Damn.” I sigh. “Figures.” Then I straighten. “Oh, shit. Am I allowed to say that?”
“No. You’re going to hell, remember?”
Something about her perfect posture and completely straight face cracks my composure. I let out a choked laugh, then freeze, hand flying up to cover my mouth, but it’s too late. Pastor Young stops midsentence. He raises a hand to shield his eyes from the spotlight, and despite the sea of faces between us, his gaze still lands on me.
“Riley.” His voice echoes through the gym, somehow louder than it had been before. “Is there something you feel called to share with the group?”
Every head turns in my direction, faces backlit in the harsh glare of the spotlight. So much for keeping your head down. I force a grin, cheeks burning from the sudden attention. “Nope.”
“Are you sure? Seems like you two have a lot to say.”
His gaze lands on Julia next, and I feel her shoulders stiffen as she slides down in her seat.
“It just feels a little extreme, right?” I blurt, suddenly desperate to pull his focus back to me. “Some of those sins seem kind of unavoidable. Like pride. It’s listed as a sin, but isn’t that a good thing? Aren’t you supposed to be proud of who you are?”
The focus is back on me, all right. Throughout the chapel, people shift uncomfortably in their seats, whispering to each other behind cupped hands. I catch a brief flash of Amanda in the front row, eyebrows lifted as she shares a knowing glance with Greer, but Pastor Young’s face is a portrait of grave concern. A disappointment so deep it momentarily pins me to the bleachers.
“Giving in to sin is never unavoidable,” he says. “The road to faith is not without challenges, of course, but the strength to resist earthly temptation is a direct result of our Heavenly Father’s grace and protection. It doesn’t matter if it’s accidental. If someone were to commit one of those seven deadly sins, for example, without accepting the Lord’s virtues, they’d be doomed to a life of misery on earth and eternal suffering in the afterlife. There’s no such thing as a good sin.”
And just like that, the whispers around me vanish, like they’ve been sucked out of the room along with the air. I don’t like how the other campers are looking at each other. I don’t like the way Torres grips the edge of her seat, like she thinks we’re all about to spontaneously combust, but the longer I sit with the weight of Pastor Young’s stare, the more I think we just might. Maybe it’s the windowless room. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or the crosses or his general conviction, but I almost believe him again. I’m almost afraid.
For a second, I wonder if this is how Hannah felt the moment before he kicked her out of church. A strange, disconnected sense of unease as an entire room of people averted their eyes and pretended she didn’t exist.
I force a tight smile past my aching jaw. “Cool,” I say. “Good to know.”
Pastor Young switches his microphone to his other hand, but I don’t relax until he turns away, striding toward the other side of the stage to continue his monologue. Only then do Julia and I finally exhale.
“Told you,” she mutters, bracing her elbows against her knees. “It’s always hell.”
But I can’t bring myself to respond. Instead, I glare down at my camp workbook, and the list of virtues seems to glare back, taunting me in stark black and white.
Diligence, charity, temperance, patience, chastity, gratitude, humility.
This is what Pastor Young wants me to learn. This is what I’m supposed to write about, but the only thing I’ve learned so far is how smart I’d been to leave Pleasant Hills when I did. Hannah isn’t the first person Pastor Young drove out. I don’t think she’ll be the last either, and looking around the chapel now, I think this is how it starts. This is how he creates congregations who are willing to sit back and watch a girl get tossed onto the street without batting an eye. Because they’re all too afraid of accidentally committing some hypothetical, irredeemable sin to notice the ones happening in front of them.