As I walked through the darkened hospital to drop off some laboratory work, I came across a tiny chapel wedged in between medical offices. It was artificial twilight inside, a mixture of the fluorescent lights filtering in through the stained glass and the few bulbs inside filtering their stale light back into the hallway. Intrigued, and in no rush to get back to work, my hand twisted the silver doorknob before I knew what I was doing.
I've always been spellbound by beautiful things; it's a quality I've become more comfortable with as I've aged. I was struck by the detail on the stained glass, the lack of religious motive behind it. It was simply gorgeous... no pretense, no purpose.
I'm not quite sure if it was my imagination or not, but I suddenly became very uneasy about being there. It's a running joke in my family that I would burst into flames if I were ever to enter a church; I was once asked to leave a Catholic wedding because I couldn't keep my composure and laughed loudly during the "serve and obey" section of the sermon.
I looked around and thought of all the believers who had sat in those tiny pews, all the people who had prayed to God for strength and courage to get them or their family members through an illness, and laughed a little to myself. How odd, I thought, for an atheist (for all intents and purposes) to be standing in the middle of this place of worship. How very much like the Devil I was then, grinning at the thought of people hoping for something bigger to step in and save them, the perpetual big brother figure who would stop the bullies from attacking.
It was then, smiling like a madwoman, that I noticed the altar. It was a tiny thing, really, more like a very well-made box than a real religious article of faith. There was the obligatory crucifix hanging above it, making sure that no one forgot the man who had suffered and died for their sins less they should become complacent about their worship. There were a few candles on it, and an empty basin to the right.
And all I could think about then was knocking all those things off and getting fucked against that altar. I wondered what the wood would feel like as it pressed against my naked hips while I felt the eyes of Jesus on me. I wanted my hair pulled, I wanted that wax dripped onto my bare skin, I wanted to use holy water as lubrication. I wanted to scream out "Oh, God" and "Fuck me, Jesus" and mean it. I wanted to practice mortification of the flesh, to know what it felt like to have a cilice pressing into my thigh as I was taken. I wanted our blood, sweat and sexual fluids to flow down the sides of that altar and baptize it with our shared passion.
If there is a Hell, I'm certainly going there now.
I've always been spellbound by beautiful things; it's a quality I've become more comfortable with as I've aged. I was struck by the detail on the stained glass, the lack of religious motive behind it. It was simply gorgeous... no pretense, no purpose.
I'm not quite sure if it was my imagination or not, but I suddenly became very uneasy about being there. It's a running joke in my family that I would burst into flames if I were ever to enter a church; I was once asked to leave a Catholic wedding because I couldn't keep my composure and laughed loudly during the "serve and obey" section of the sermon.
I looked around and thought of all the believers who had sat in those tiny pews, all the people who had prayed to God for strength and courage to get them or their family members through an illness, and laughed a little to myself. How odd, I thought, for an atheist (for all intents and purposes) to be standing in the middle of this place of worship. How very much like the Devil I was then, grinning at the thought of people hoping for something bigger to step in and save them, the perpetual big brother figure who would stop the bullies from attacking.
It was then, smiling like a madwoman, that I noticed the altar. It was a tiny thing, really, more like a very well-made box than a real religious article of faith. There was the obligatory crucifix hanging above it, making sure that no one forgot the man who had suffered and died for their sins less they should become complacent about their worship. There were a few candles on it, and an empty basin to the right.
And all I could think about then was knocking all those things off and getting fucked against that altar. I wondered what the wood would feel like as it pressed against my naked hips while I felt the eyes of Jesus on me. I wanted my hair pulled, I wanted that wax dripped onto my bare skin, I wanted to use holy water as lubrication. I wanted to scream out "Oh, God" and "Fuck me, Jesus" and mean it. I wanted to practice mortification of the flesh, to know what it felt like to have a cilice pressing into my thigh as I was taken. I wanted our blood, sweat and sexual fluids to flow down the sides of that altar and baptize it with our shared passion.
If there is a Hell, I'm certainly going there now.
This entry was posted by Mellie, on
Friday, August 04, 2006.
